


Winter Under Cultivation

by ScullyLikesScience



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Canon Compliant, Endgame, F/M, POV Multiple, Post-Season/Series 06, R plus L equals J, Resolved Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-24 03:15:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 38
Words: 200,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7491219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScullyLikesScience/pseuds/ScullyLikesScience
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'So they will not love,' the old man answered, 'for love is the bane of honor, the death of duty.'</p><p>That did not sound right to Jon, yet he said nothing. The maester was a hundred years old, and a high officer of the Night's Watch; it was not his place to contradict him." ~ A Game of Thrones, Jon VIII</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kissed By Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Jon Snow and Sansa Stark nor any others that appear in the ASOIAF/GoT universe. They belong to George R.R. Martin, D&D, and HBO. If they did belong to me, Jonsa would be canon (and for all we know, it just might be). Also, we'd get some good peen shots on the show, and not floppy old man wieners or gross warty penises, but I mean some decent male nudity. Game of Thrones should be an equal opportunity employer. Um, now what was I talking about? Oh yeah, the characters in this fic that also appear in ASOIAF/GoT don't belong to me, nor does canon from the books/TV show that I make reference to within this story. All credit goes to GRRM or D&D.
> 
> The title of this fanfic was taken from a poem:
> 
> Winter under cultivation  
> Is as arable as spring. ~ Emily Dickinson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The wildlings seemed to think Ygritte a great beauty because of her hair; red hair was rare among the free folk, and those who had it were said to be kissed by fire, which was supposed to be lucky." ~ A Storm of Swords, Jon II

They were sitting in front of the fire. Ghost lay sleeping on the floor between them. The feast was long over, Brienne had gone upstairs to her private chamber over an hour ago, and he found himself alone with her for the first time that day. Their duties kept them separated for most of the day, and usually the first time he would lay eyes on her was when she’d enter the hall for the evening feast. His heart would always beat a little faster when she’d make her way over to the family table and take the seat next to his.

As Lady of Winterfell, she spent her days addressing the concerns, and meeting the needs, of the people living under House Stark’s care and protection. Twice she’d ridden out with Brienne and Podrick to visit the Wildling families encamped close to the Last Hearth to make sure they had sufficient food and shelter. On her second visit, she’d managed to finally convince them to move farther south and closer to Winterfell. Following those visits, he'd gotten word that she'd been so determined and forceful that many of the free folk had thought that Ygritte had somehow returned to them.

He spent his days holed up in a room with Tormund, Davos, and various northern lords, preparing for winter and what was to come. The other Houses were told detailed accounts of events north of the Wall, including the tragedy at Hardhome. Neither dragonglass nor Valyrian steel was easy to come by, but word of their importance was starting to spread throughout the North. News of Tommen Baratheon’s death as well as the coronation of his mother was also discussed. She’d declared war on Dorne and The Reach, but Cersei Lannister’s political squabbles did not presently concern the other northern lords. Their main concern lay north of Winterfell, not south. But he knew winter was coming for all of Westeros, and if the North fell, then lands south of the Neck wouldn’t be far behind.

A pile of letters and notices that had arrived earlier that afternoon sat on the small table next to him. White ravens began appearing three weeks ago, and every day more ravens arrived than the last. News of Ramsay Bolton’s defeat and Sansa Stark’s reclamation of Winterfell had spread fast through the Seven Kingdoms as well as his own status as the recently anointed King in the North. Most correspondence he received expressed a positive reaction to this news, while others were more ambiguous, and some mentioned heartfelt regret over what had become of the last King in the North, his brother Robb, as well as Ned and Catelyn Stark. Many expressed condolences over the tragic loss of young Rickon, like the letter he had just read from Samwell Tarly, who seemed to be doing well in Old Town.

He sighed, setting the letter aside, and glanced over at her. A book lay open in her lap, and she sat quietly reading. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat as he looked at her. The light from the fire bathed her face in a soft golden glow and shone in the depth her Tully-blue eyes. Her red hair flowed freely over her shoulders, the embers of the fire reflected in their long strands. Every day she reminded him more and more of Catelyn Stark, at least in appearance. Yet she was much more beautiful. And unlike Catelyn, upon sight of him she would smile easily and her eyes would sparkle.

He gazed at her, momentarily speechless. Sometimes he still couldn’t believe that Sansa Stark willingly chose to spend time in his company, and that she actually seemed to enjoy having him for a companion. Her company was something he’d craved in his youth, but his desire for her friendship was usually rebuffed with either proud disdain or cold indifference. And yet there she was, sitting in the chair beside his, contentedly reading in comfortable, secure silence. These quiet evenings together had become his favorite part of the day. As she looked up from her book, their eyes met and she smiled. Panic squeezed his insides, a feeling that left him dazed and confused. _You know nothing, Jon Snow._


	2. The Last Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I found one account of the Long Night that spoke of the last hero slaying Others with a blade of dragonsteel. Supposedly they could not stand against it." ~ A Feast for Crows, Samwell I

She awoke with a start, her lids blinking furiously as her eyes came into focus. He was kneeling in front of her, his hands closing the book in her lap. The fire had died down and the room had grown cold. Ghost was gone. She pulled her cloak tighter around her arms and watched him lift the book from her lap. He stared down at the title on the front cover, furrowing his brows as he stood up.

“I thought you’d be reading about your heroes like Ser Dontos or Ser Ryam Redwayne,” he said with a smirk.

“I don’t read those tales anymore,” she replied with a sigh. “Heroes only exist in the songs. I’m not a child, and I know now that life isn’t a song.”

She watched his expression sadden as she stood up from the chair. “I guess that all depends on the song,” he said, setting the book down on the small table nearby.

Before she could reply, Ghost reappeared. They were soon making their way toward their chambers, the direwolf following them. As per their nightly ritual, he walked with her until they were just outside her chamber. She placed her hand on the latch, but hesitating, she turned back around to face him. “I don’t feel right keeping the Lord’s chamber. You’re the King in the North, and it’s only fair that a king…”

“This again?” he asked. “That doesn’t make me Lord of Winterfell. Winterfell doesn’t belong to me; it’s yours. It’s not the Lord’s chamber anymore. It’s the Lady’s chamber.”

“It’s not mine, Jon. It’s _ours_.”                   

He swallowed, and she watched his eyes dart to her chamber door. Something deep in her belly tightened, and she felt her face grow hot. “Winterfell. It… it belongs to us.”

His mouth curved into a slight smile, and he nodded. She noticed the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “But the Lady’s chamber belongs to you. Goodnight, Sansa.”

“Goodnight, Jon.”                     

She then turned the latch and stepped inside her chamber, before closing the door behind her. She could hear his voice through the door, speaking in a quiet tone to his direwolf – “stay with Sansa” – like he did every night since they’d retaken their home. She smiled to herself, and turned towards her bed. After dressing down into her shift, Ghost started to whimper. She rolled her eyes, shaking her head, but she was soon turning the latch and letting him inside. It was the first time in three weeks that she’d succumbed to the whimpering and opened the door.

Later, as she lay staring up at the ceiling, she thought of how much her life had changed since she’d jumped off Winterfell’s battlements with Theon Greyjoy. When she’d arrived at the Wall and flew into Jon’s arms, it had been the first time since the death of her father that she’d felt truly safe. Now, as she drifted to sleep, running her fingers through Ghost’s white fur as he lay beside her, she thought of how much like her father Jon grew every day, both in his bearing and appearance.

She found herself aspiring to be more and more like her mother, taking on the responsibilities of looking after the castle and its people. As each day passed, the less she dwelled on the horrors her life here had entailed when her name had been Bolton, and the more confident she became as she carved out her identity as Lady of Winterfell. Finally closing her eyes, she wondered if this might possibly be the happiest she’d been since that fateful day on the Kingsroad when her own direwolf had been cruelly taken from her.

*****

The welcoming feast was about to begin. Houses from all over the North had traveled to Winterfell to pledge allegiance to their new King, and to offer blessings and goodwill toward House Stark. Sansa and Jon were seated next to each other at the table on the raised platform overlooking the lower tables and benches, where her mother and father, the former Lord and Lady Stark, used to host Winterfell feasts in what felt like a lifetime ago. The last of the high lords to enter was Lord Rodrick Ryswell of the Rills who gave a slight bow of his head toward the raised platform before taking his seat. Upon sight of him and his three sons, she stiffened and her eyes narrowed. After everyone had been seated, various toasts were made, many thanks were given, and then the feasting began.

Over the course of the meal, they each spoke about the day’s events. Jon had been tied up in his council chambers with Davos, Tormund, and Lord Manderly, writing letters to be sent by raven to the Citadel and notable bannermen in southern regions of Westeros. She’d spent her day overseeing restoration projects around the castle, hoping to repair any damage before winter turned harsh as well as rid her home of any remaining signs that it had once been under the lordship of House Bolton. The Bolton line was now extinct, never to rise again. The thought made her smile.

After an hour of feasting, Lord Ryswell made his way to the front of the large hall and came to a stop in front of the raised platform where they sat. It was obvious to Sansa that he’d consumed a fair amount of wine. He merely gave her a nod of his head before squaring himself in front of Jon.

“Your Grace,” he said with a smile. “The last time I had the pleasure of being present at Winterfell for an occasion such as this was for your sister’s wedding feast, which… wasn’t very long ago.”

She tensed and turned slightly, glancing at Jon, and watched his face harden. Yet he remained silent.

Encouraged by this silence, Lord Ryswell continued. “Weddings are a fine thing. Now, your lovely sister is sadly once again without a husband. And I have three sons.” He laughed. It was a jarring noise like a loud guffaw. “Any of my boys would do for her, and even more so now that many of these prominent northern Houses lost a good number of their heirs in King Robb’s foolish war.”

Jon’s mouth became a thin line, and she watched his eyes flicker a steely glint at the man who stood before them.

“The uniting of our Houses would be a joyous occasion,” the Lord of the Rills said. “Your sister can’t stay unwed forever, and any of my sons would be honored to join with House Stark. And if the Lady of Winterfell could handle that Bolton bastard, then I know she’d do just fine as the wife of Roger, Rickard, or Roose, my youngest.” He turned his head and nodded in the direction of the table where the rest of House Ryswell sat. It was raucous, and one of Lord Ryswell’s sons was openly flirting and grabbing at one of the serving girls.

Sansa’s insides twisted into knots. She hadn’t thought once of marriage or marrying since she escaped her last husband. She could blame Lord Ryswell’s forwardness on the wine consumption, but she knew that most of those high lords must have started thinking of similar plans for the preservation of their Houses. In the eyes of the men who filled this hall, she was simply a commodity to be bought and sold, a vessel to produce heirs, and nothing more. She glanced at Jon, who had leaned forward in his chair. _Well, maybe not all of them_.

“Your youngest, Roose… He’s the namesake of Lord Roose Bolton. Do I have that right?” asked Jon.

The benches closest to the raised platform grew quieter, and soon more people than usual were looking in their direction. Sansa watched Lord Ryswell’s confident expression born of drunken bravado falter for the first time since approaching their table. “Yes, your Grace. He was.”

Jon nodded, and then spoke even louder. “And House Ryswell was one of the first to declare for House Bolton when Roose was named Warden of the North following his betrayal and murder of my brother at the Red Wedding. Do I also have that right?”

More tables grew quiet. Sansa almost laughed as Lord Ryswell puffed himself up, bristling at the humiliation, his bald head reddening. She thought he looked like an angry frog.

“Your… Your Gra… Your Grace,” the Lord of the Rills tripped over his words. “We were in a very difficult position, and…”

“Enjoy the feast, Lord Ryswell.” Jon cut him off, speaking with finality, effectively dismissing him.

As the old man stumbled somewhat back to his table among the mocking laughter of the other Houses, Sansa turned her attention back to Jon and offered him a grateful smile. Without thinking, she slid her hand over the table and took his. Feelings of warmth rose up inside her, and she debated pulling back. But he gripped her hand in return, and she held on a little longer.

“He’s ridiculous,” Jon said after a brief silence, letting go of her hand and tilting his head in House Ryswell’s direction.

“He reminds me of Janos Slynt,” she replied darkly.

Turning his head sharply, Jon’s eyes widened. “You knew Janos Slynt?”

She nodded, her head bowing as she stared down at the table. “He was there when… when Father died.” Terrible memories rushed forward. King’s Landing. She had screamed and wept. Janos Slynt held up her father’s head in triumphant mockery. She remembered foolishly wishing that a hero would come along and cut off his head. What a silly girl she’d been. She wondered if justice was truly something her family could ever hope for.

“He was there,” Jon repeated quietly, as if coming to a realization of just what that man's involvement had been in his lord father’s death. “Well, Janos Slynt is dead now.”

“Dead?” she asked in surprise. “How do you know?”

He turned and met her questioning gaze. “Janos was part of the Night’s Watch for a time.”

She gaped at him. “What happened?”

“I was just appointed Lord Commander, and he refused to obey a command. So I… beheaded him.”

Sansa’s heart pounded. She almost couldn’t believe it. It seemed too good to be true, but it was true all the same.

*****

She pulled the book from the shelf. It was a book she hadn’t read in so long, that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone through its pages, probably not since she’d left Winterfell all those years ago as a young girl. She smiled to herself and then made her way toward the council chambers. The fire in the hearth bathed Jon in a warm light, reflected in the sheen of his dark hair. Several scrolls lay atop the table next to his chair. She watched him reach for one and break the seal.

He turned toward the doorway, the shadows casting his features into sharp angles. Sansa stood poised in the threshold. Their eyes met but neither of them spoke. Her gaze drifted lower, at his chest expanding as he breathed. For a brief second, her whole body tensed and her mouth went dry. But meeting his eyes again, she smiled warmly and entered the room. Taking the seat beside his, she sighed with contentment at the heat emanating from the hearth.

“So what are you reading tonight?” he asked with some amusement.

“The tale of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight,” she replied, not meeting his gaze. She felt her face grow hot, a reddening that had nothing to do with the fire she was sitting in front of.

His eyes widened, and he grinned. “I thought you no longer cared for songs and tales about heroes, since they don’t actually exist.”

She bit her bottom lip and refused to look over at him. “Maybe I was wrong. A hero could exist… somewhere. Besides, this isn’t one of Old Nan’s stories. Aemon the Dragonknight really lived, and he loved Queen Naerys. He was so brokenhearted when she married their brother.”

Jon laughed, and then sighed as he leaned back in his chair, turning his attention to a notice from the Citadel. “I remember you used to love that story.”

Sansa finally looked over at him. “I still do.”


	3. The Player And The Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In King's Landing, there are two sorts of people. The players and the pieces." ~ Petyr Baelish; A Storm of Swords, Sansa VI

The Winterfell gates opened as his carriage and bannermen approached, the mockingbird sigil announcing their arrival. Stepping out the carriage, he glanced around the large courtyard. The look of the place was a vast improvement since the last time he had laid eyes on it – two months ago when the northern Houses had gathered in the Great Keep following the defeat of the Boltons and then proceeded to declare Jon Snow the new King in the North.

Since then, he’d returned to the Vale to meet with its high lords and Robin Arryn, while ordering the majority of the Knights to hold Moat Cailin. Decisions would need to be made about dividing up the Bolton lands and strongholds. Cersei Lannister on the Iron Throne posed a formidable threat to Sansa Stark, especially if the newly anointed King remained ignorant of that fact. Something would need to be done. He was bringing with him news of Walder Frey and recent events at the Twins that could help shape things for the wars to come. No time was like the present when it came to seizing power. Other decisions would need to be made as well, ones he took a particularly keen interest in.

“Where could I find Lady Stark?” he asked the man who’d come forward to tend to the horses.

“I believe she’s in the godswood with the King.”

He grimaced internally but kept his face impassive, unreadable. Turning, he started to make his way toward the walls that enclosed the dark, primal forest of the Winterfell godswood. Approaching the main iron gate, he grabbed hold of the latch and then stepped inside. Snow lightly covered the ground, while it hung heavy on the branches of every tree. A thousand years of humus underneath the snow hid the sound of his footsteps, and the occasional sharp trilling of snow shrikes could be heard.

He soon found her beneath the weirwood tree, sitting on a moss-covered stone with the bastard Jon Snow. The sight stopped him in his tracks. The leaves of the heart tree provided a colorful canopy above their smiling faces and twinkling eyes. The glimmering pool of black water matched the sheen of the young man’s dark hair. The only things redder than the weirwood’s leaves were her hair, draped over one shoulder in a long braid, and the eyes of the tree that seemed to be watching him.

The flame of jealousy burned bright in his heart. Memories of Brandon Stark rushed forward, of his skills with a sword and his handsome looks. Then of Eddard Stark, his unwavering sense of honor and justice, and then Catelyn’s words rang in his ears, when she spoke of her husband’s _“good, sweet heart beneath his somber face.”_ He watched Sansa’s warm smiles directed at her half-brother, who seemed to embody everything that was desirable about Brandon and admirable about Ned. He watched the young man’s expression soften in response to her. And when she reached to brush the falling snowflakes from the bastard’s face, the burning jealousy turned to hatred.

“Lady Sansa,” he called softly.

She lifted her head to look at him and her eyes widened in surprise. “Lord Baelish,” she said. Her voice was cold and formal. “What brings you back to Winterfell so soon?”

Hesitating, he watched them rise to their feet before he replied to her. “There are important matters that need to be discussed with the young King in the North.” He then turned and met Jon Snow’s hardened gaze with a faint smirk. “Shall we gather your council together… Your Grace?”

Jon Snow sighed, and nodded. “All right.”

They had soon made their way out of the godswood and began to head towards the Great Keep. He subconsciously clenched and unclenched his fists as he walked some ways behind the young companions. Despite the recent horrific ordeal she’d suffered at the hands of that sadistic beast Ramsay Bolton, which he’d regret to his dying day, he thought Sansa Stark had never looked more content, or more beautiful. He stared at the back of Jon Snow’s head, his fists continuing to clench.


	4. The King's Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tell them that you saw the true king, and that they are welcome in his realm, so long as they keep his peace." ~ Stannis; A Dance with Dragons, Jon III

They walked out of the godswood, heading for the Great Keep, Lord Baelish following not far behind. His presence in Winterfell was not welcomed, at least by him. Part of him did feel grateful that Littlefinger had gathered the Knights of the Vale to come to Sansa’s aid, and so in some way he owed the man their lives. But now that he knew of Littlefinger’s reasons for giving her to the Boltons, insofar as what the man had told Sansa, he found it hard to believe that Lord Baelish had come to Winterfell with the Vale for entirely her sake. He doubted a man like Littlefinger did anything that wasn’t purely selfish.

As they entered the Great Keep, Jon sent word with one of the servants to round up Ser Davos Seaworth, Tormund Giantsbane, and Lords Cerwyn, Glover, and Manderly. He felt thankful at least a few of the North’s high lords were currently present in the castle. Not long after, they were sitting around the large table inside his council chambers. He sat at one end of the table, with Sansa on his left and Davos on his right. Tormund sat in a chair against the wall, facing Jon. The lords sitting around the other end of the table, flanked on either side of Littlefinger, stared as if speechless for a moment while a servant stoked the fire in the hearth. Jon suspected the nature of their thoughts. His most trusted advisers were an ex-smuggler, a wildling, and a woman, so what kind of a king did that make him? He hoped he’d prove himself to be a good one, but only time would tell.

Once the servant departed the room and the door was shut, Littlefinger looked around the table, his gaze settling on Sansa for brief moment. He seemed to be hesitating. Jon wondered if Lord Baelish had been counting on the absence of his sister at this meeting. However, he quickly adjusted and started to speak of the Vale and the status at Moat Cailin. While the other lords agreed that the Neck’s defenses in the south would need to be maintained, their primary concern continued to be the Wall and what lay beyond it.

Littlefinger sighed. “But with Cersei on the throne…”

He was interrupted by a knock on the door. They all turned to watch the latch turn, and the door open. A Winterfell guard appeared. “I apologize for the intrusion, my lords. A party from Torrhen’s Square has just arrived, and Lady Eddara Tallhart along with her cousins Brandon and Beren Tallhart request an audience with Lady Stark.”

Sansa gasped and her eyes widened. She looked at Jon, smiling, and her hand gripped his forearm. Looking down at her hand, feeling its heat through the fabric, his heart started to pound. The northern high lords were just as surprised as she was. Littlefinger smirked. “Ah, yes. That was another piece of news I had to bring. Following our defeat of the Boltons, I traveled with a garrison of Knights to Torrhen’s Square to rescue the surviving members of House Tallhart from their Ironborn captors.” He smiled at Sansa. Jon thought he seemed quite pleased with himself. “I knew it would make you happy, my lady.”

She stared at him for a brief second, her face unreadable, before quickly thanking him and departing from the council chambers. Jon found himself staring at the door for several moments after it had closed. He then turned and looked down the table at Lord Baelish. Their eyes met, and Jon thought he saw something like triumph in the older man’s gaze.

“How did you remove the Ironborn’s hold on Torrhen’s Square with just a garrison of the Vale’s Knights?” asked Lord Manderly in disbelief.

“I placed some men on the inside who worked within the castle to aid us in its recovery,” answered Littlefinger. “House Tallhart is one of the principal houses sworn to House Stark. It was only right that once Winterfell was recovered, House Stark would go to their aid.”

Davos pursed his lips. “But it wasn’t House Stark that came to their aid. It was the Vale.”

Lord Baelish leaned back in his chair. “The Vale was acting on Lady Stark’s behalf.”

The others around the table exchanged questioning glances, but that was all he said on the matter. The dominant topic discussion then became Cersei Lannister and the outstanding charges against Sansa Stark for her role in Joffrey Baratheon’s murder.

“She had nothing to do with that,” Jon said firmly.

“Oh, I agree, Your Grace,” Littlefinger replied with a simpering smile. “But that doesn’t change the fact Cersei believes she did. That puts Lady Stark in considerable danger.”

Lord Cerwyn shook his head. “No army from the south has ever marched this far north. And to do so in winter would be a suicide mission.”

Chuckling, Lord Glover agreed. “Does she even have an army to spare? Last we knew she was preoccupied with Dorne and the Reach.” He shook his head. “She annihilates House Tyrell with one explosion and still declares war on the Reach! And for what? They all died in the Sept of Baelor.” He scoffed. “This is why you don’t put a woman on the throne.”

Lords Manderly and Cerwyn nodded their heads in agreement. Jon looked over at Tormund, who rolled his eyes.

“No, Cersei won’t send an army to Winterfell,” said Littlefinger. “Not even a garrison. But she _will_ send assassins.”

“It would take months for anyone to reach Winterfell from King’s Landing,” Lord Manderly replied.

Licking his lips, Lord Baelish nodded. “ _If_ the assassin would be coming from the capital…” He then locked eyes with Jon. “Don’t underestimate Cersei Lannister. In a single moment, she eliminated the High Septon, the Faith Militant, Queen Margaery and House Tyrell, and a vast number of other King’s Landing high lords and ladies. She is fast approaching absolute power and she won’t hesitate to use it. This bodes ill for all of Westeros.”

Jon glanced at Davos, who also looked concerned. He then turned back to Littlefinger. “Lady Stark’s safety is paramount, and there is no safer place for her than Winterfell. Our battle does not lie to the south, Lord Baelish. It doesn’t matter who sits on the Iron Throne. The real enemy will come from the north, and it’s coming for us all.”

The subject of Cersei Lannister was considered closed, and the group moved on to other things. Lord Baelish was mostly quiet, listening to and observing Jon as he discussed matters with the other lords around the table. On more than one occasion, Jon thought Littlefinger’s eyes shone with a hateful gleam.

*****

That evening inside the Great Hall, Jon sat at the table on the raised platform alone, lost in thought. Bannermen from several different houses were filling the lower tables and benches, including the party from House Tallhart that had arrived earlier after traveling from their reclaimed castle that lay southwest of Winterfell. House Ryswell had thankfully returned to the Rills, and the atmosphere at the feast was less rowdy, for which Jon felt somewhat relieved. However, Lord Baelish was sitting among the guests and he often unnervingly felt the man’s eyes on him.

He smelled her before he saw her; a sharp, sweet flowery fragrance with a hint of lemon underneath it. The scent could only mean one thing. He turned and looked at Sansa standing there smiling at him, her eyes sparkling. She wore a wool dress of Tully red and blue, something her mother would have worn, and yet it wholly belonged to her. His lips parted as he gazed at her, his mouth going dry. He blinked, swallowing.

“Thank you,” she said, grinning, her cheeks reddening as she sat down in the chair beside him.

“Did you make that?” he asked after finding his voice.

She nodded, smiling. “I did. I’d ask you if you like it, but I already know the answer.”

Jon laughed nervously. He didn’t know how to reply. He looked at her and she smirked. He furrowed his brows, studying her. “You’re in good spirits this evening. How was your afternoon in the audience chamber?”

“It was good. The Tallharts are relieved to no longer be captives in their own home, but they lost so many men between the Red Wedding and fighting the Ironborn, both here at Winterfell and at Torrhen’s Square. Ser Helman, Lady Eddara’s father, and her older brother Benfred were slain as well as her father’s brother Leobald. Lady Eddara and Leobald’s two sons are all that’s left of House Tallhart. They need our help.”

“And I suspect you’ll be of great help to them,” he replied with a smile.

She shrugged as a young man approached the table to pour their wine. “I hope so. Lady Eddara and her cousins have requested an audience with the both of us to discuss a family matter. Will you have some time tomorrow?”

He nodded. “Yes, of course.”

Over their meal, she regaled him with the rest of the details of her day in the audience chamber and her projects to repair Winterfell’s glass garden as well as the restoration of the nearby winter town, which the Boltons had torched. She spoke with enthusiasm, smiling and eyes shining, and she often reached over to grasp his hand or touch his arm. He listened with rapt attention, rarely taking his eyes off her, as if spellbound. Throughout the course of the evening, there were shared smiles, laughter, and peaceful companionship between them. But later that night, after Sansa had retired to her bedchamber and Jon was inside his own, his smile faded to a grim expression, and his brows creased as if he were fighting some kind of great internal battle, a war waging just below the surface.


	5. Wind And Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What is honor compared to a woman's love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms … or the memory of a brother's smile? Wind and words. Wind and words." ~ Maester Aemon; A Game of Thrones, Jon VIII

Holding a new book in her hand, Sansa began to descend the stonework staircase of the Library Tower. As she walked off the last step and into the courtyard, she was suddenly happened upon by Brienne, who appeared to have rushed forward in an effort to find her.

“I am sorry, my lady,” she spoke, straightening herself as upright as possible and placing her hand on the hilt of her sword. “I swore a vow to your lady mother to protect you. I failed to protect Renly. I failed to protect Lady Catelyn. I cannot fail you as well.”

Sansa stared for a brief moment, taken aback, and then laughed. “Brienne, I told you that I was only going to the library. We’re within the walls of Winterfell. There’s no need for you to be so… dutiful. I don’t need to be guarded in my own home. You already know this.”

Brienne cleared her throat. “Yes. But your brother, the king, came upon me and asked me why I wasn’t with you. I gave him the same explanation which you just spoke. He looked quite displeased. He reminded me that Cersei Lannister was sitting atop the Iron Throne. There are those who could seek to capture you and sell you to the queen, or assassinate you right here within these walls of Winterfell that you call home.”

“I’d like to see them try,” she replied with stubborn determination. “Jon is King in the North. I am the Lady of Winterfell. Arya and Bran may be alive out there, and I hope that they are, but if they never come home they are as good as dead in the eyes of everyone else in the Seven Kingdoms. I am Ned Stark’s one remaining trueborn child. Even my enemies would need me alive, if only to further their own interests. Only a fool would seek to kill me now, and Cersei is no fool.”

“But the queen could very well send someone to Winterfell to take you alive,” said Brienne, her voice somber and serious. “Do you want to go back to King’s Landing? To face a trial for Joffrey Baratheon’s murder? To once again be used as a pawn in the queen’s political games?”

Her face hardened. “I will never be used again. I will never leave Winterfell again. I’m safe here with Jon. No one would dare touch me.”

Nodding, Brienne hesitated for a moment before speaking. “And what about him?”

Sansa stared at her. “What… what do you mean? Jon would never harm me. He’s my brother. I trust him.”

 _“Half-brother,”_ she replied, correcting her. “He’s also a king. You can insist as much as you like that no one will ever use you or force you to leave Winterfell, but don’t think that a king won’t use his own sister to better his cause or cement his power.”

“Jon isn’t like that. He isn’t a political schemer nor is he hungry for power. He’s good and kind and honorable. He’s brave and strong, and…” She paused, her father’s words suddenly coming back to her. _And gentle._

Brienne sighed. “Well I hope he continues to prove himself worthy of you, and the trust you’ve placed in him.”

Sansa, lost in her own thoughts, didn’t reply.

*****

Later that day, a small group came together in the audience chamber. Jon sat down at the table, instructing Sansa to take the high seat, while Brienne and Davos sat in chairs off behind the table, against the wall. Winterfell guards had stationed themselves at the front and rear of the chamber. After a few moments, the doors opened and in walked Eddara Tallhart, Lady of Torrhen’s Square, a fair-haired, blue-eyed maid of twelve years, and her two cousins. The oldest, Brandon Tallhart, was a young man, possibly around the same age as Jon when he left Winterfell to join the Night’s Watch. He couldn’t be older than nineteen years. Beren looked to be the same age as Lady Eddara.

After bowing and paying their respects, almost immediately upon taking their seats, Lady Eddara Tallhart requested leave to marry one of her cousins. “We are the last of House Tallhart. My father Ser Helman Tallhart was slain in the battle at Duskendale. My older brother Benfred was slain by the Ironborn on the Stony Shore. I have no other brothers, no one to carry my father’s line. My cousins, Brandon and Beren, their father Leobald was slain in the battle to save Winterfell from the Ironborn. The garrison of Bolton troops from the Dreadfort defeated them. We heard my uncle’s body was presented to Theon Greyjoy as a gift by Ramsay Bolton.”

Sansa and Jon exchanged saddened looks. They remembered Ser Helman Tallhart and his son, Benfred, a big loud boy who would often visit Winterfell with his father. He had been on friendly terms with Robb and Theon, and would spend much of his time in Winterfell in their company.

“It is my duty and my honor to preserve my House,” continued Lady Eddara. “If I marry into another, my children will not take the Tallhart name. I must do right by my father, the former Master of Torrhen’s Square. He was a knight, and a brave one, but above all, he was a good father to me, and for his sake I will do my duty. In a few years I will be of an age to marry, and my children must be Tallharts.”

Sansa’s eyes had lowered to the table. Her insides twisted into knots of anxiety and guilt. Who was left to continue the Stark line? What of _her_ duty, and _her_ honor? But the idea of marrying again filled her with dread.

Jon felt the young lady perfectly embodied her House’s words, “Proud and Free.” He then turned his attention to the Tallhart brothers, Brandon and Beren. They lowered their gaze and wouldn’t meet his eyes. They didn’t appear to be happy about being present at this audience or maybe it was the notion of one of them having to marry this twelve year old girl.

“You mother, Berena, is of House Hornwood?” Jon asked them.

“Yes, Your Grace,” replied Brandon.

Leaning forward in his seat, he began to think of a plan. “And if I’m not mistaken, House Hornwood is without any heirs. But you have a cousin, Larence Snow, son of Lord Halys Hornwood, your mother’s brother. He’s over thirteen years of age and is currently being fostered at Deepwood Motte under the care of House Glover. Do I have that right?”

The young man nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Lady Eddara,” Jon said, turning back to her. “How would you like to be Lady of the Hornwood?”

“Leave Torrhen’s Square? But my father’s line, Your Grace,” the young girl replied, her eyes widening.

Jon smiled kindly. “Your cousins have the Tallhart name and so will their sons and their sons’ sons. Their father was your father’s brother. Ser Helman’s blood flows through their veins. Your father’s line will continue through his nephews. Your family has already been united once before with House Hornwood through marriage, and that House is on the verge of extinction. I must do right by both your Houses, Tallhart and Hornwood, who have always loyally stuck with House Stark, even during the worst of times. Now, I’ve heard nothing but good things from Lord Glover concerning your cousin, Larence Snow, who is praised for his wits and courage. It would be a good match.”

“But he’s a bastard,” the young maid replied, a hint of derision in her voice.

“Eddara!” Brandon whispered angrily, reaching over to pinch his cousin. “Don’t speak that way to your king!”

She gasped and rubbed the sting from her arm.  She then turned a somber face on Jon. “My apologies, Your Grace.”

Jon gave the Tallharts a half smile, and then resumed speaking to Lady Eddara. “When Larence Snow comes of age, he will be legitimized and named Larence Hornwood, heir to Lord Halys Hornwood, and will be the new Lord of the Hornwood. I’m giving you the chance to be the new Lady of the Hornwood. You can take command of Hornwood castle and all the lands of the house. It would be a fine honor, if you so choose it.”

“Do I really have a choice, my lord?” she asked hesitantly.

“Yes, my lady,” Jon answered kindly. “You have a choice.” He paused briefly, thinking. “I can see that what happened to your family still weighs heavily on all of you. Lady Stark and I know how you feel. The Boltons are not only the monsters who murdered our family, they murdered yours as well. The Bolton lands border the Hornwood lands to the north. If you, Lady Tallhart, agree to help me preserve House Hornwood, I will give you a portion of the Bolton lands. You will take possession of the Dreadfort and transform it to a place of honor. And if I were you, I’d promptly change the name to something more worthy, perhaps a name honoring your lord father. But like I said, you have a choice.”

The three young Tallharts stared at the King in the North with widened eyes and mouths agape. His lips curved into a hint of a smile. Sansa slowly turned her head and gazed at him, her heart swelling with pride and admiration. Not long after, the audience concluded, and they dispersed from the large chamber.

Jon and Sansa made their way through the Great Keep along with Brienne and Davos, until they separated from their friends to take the granite staircase that led to the family chambers. As they came around the last turn of the stair before they’d reach the landing, Sansa came to a stop and grasped hold of Jon’s hand. He halted and turned to look at her.

“That was really wonderful… what you did for the Tallharts,” she said quietly. “Even though Lady Eddara will eventually need to leave her home.”

“I only did what was right,” he replied.

She smiled, shaking her head. “You say it as if it was the easiest thing in the world. It was good of you to restore House Hornwood.” She paused, hesitating nervously. “Have you thought about the future of House Stark? And other Houses that need to be stabilized? There could come a time when difficult decisions will have to be made, and we might not have a choice. You are the King, and whatever you command must be carried out. But if there is a choice, I ask to remain in Winterfell. Always.” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears and her brows creased with worry. “Please don’t send me away,” she whispered.

Jon’s fingers entwined with hers, and his heart beat furiously beneath his ribs. He lifted his head to meet her pleading gaze. “I could sooner cut off my right arm.”

Relieved, heart swelling with affectionate gratitude, Sansa kissed him lightly on the cheek, and for a moment he was not a king, nor a lord commander of armies, or even the bastard half-brother she had looked down on with contempt in her childhood. In that moment, he was simply Jon, and she loved him.  

*****

That night, Jon lay awake in his bedchamber, staring up at the ceiling. The southern lands of Westeros were preoccupied with their own battles over grudges and thrones. The North was preparing for battle against an otherworldly enemy who could strike when they least expected it. Stark loyalists were ridding the land of their enemies, clearing the remaining Bolton garrisons from the Dreadfort and running the surviving Umbers out of the Last Hearth. He suspected there would be many battles to fight in the wars to come, and he took pride in the fact that he was fighting on the side that will fight for the living. Despite what he knew was coming for them, he had hope. He’d already seen death, and wasn’t in a hurry to see it again. If this life was all there was, then he wanted to live it.

But he believed that he was now also fighting the greatest battle of his life, a battle in which the odds were tremendously against him, for it was a battle of love. _“We are only human,”_ Maester Aemon had said to him once. _“And the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy.”_ With a helpless feeling of anguish, Jon couldn't foresee any glory in store for him.

Day after day he fought against that noblest of all passions which the gods had created in the human soul. At times he thought he had the victory, but no sooner had he stacked the battlements within his mind with reinforcements than the battle was resumed with vigor and he became filled with despair of ever gaining the victory. This battle that raged fiercest in his mind and heart was the rightness or the wrongness of his love for Sansa.

Sansa was smart and stubborn, and the more Jon spent time with her, the more he learned about her. And the more he learned about her, the more his need to keep her safe grew. And the more he needed to keep her safe, the more reasons he devised to be around her. And the more he was around her, the more he smiled. And the more he smiled, the more his face softened. And the more his face softened, the more his heart softened. And the more his heart softened, the more happiness he began to experience; a different kind of happiness than he had ever known before.

But the way she was starting to make him feel whenever she touched him was altogether different. Fire would burn in his veins and spread south to his loins, a fire he hadn’t felt since he’d left Ygritte all that time ago. The touch of Sansa’s hand flooded him with so much pleasure it made him feel uncomfortable just thinking about it. At times it would make him feel sick, and fill him with panic. Other times he felt such joy and longing that he thought he was going to burst.

He knew and believed it was wrong to love her, but, try as he would, he could not stifle the intense passion of his soul. He tried to put her out of his thoughts when she wasn’t around, but he found such a thing impossible. He called himself a fool over and over again for loving a woman he could never have, he cursed himself for the dishonorable nature of his thoughts and the shame it would cause his lord father if he had been alive, but all to no avail.

Perhaps for the first time, he fully appreciated the importance of the Night’s Watch vow. _“Love is the bane of honor, the death of duty,”_ Maester Aemon had said. He had doubted those words when he’d heard them, but he now knew firsthand the struggle between honor, duty, and love. He now understood why dynasties had been built and shattered, and why wars had been waged over it. There was nothing more wonderful, or more terrifying, than being in love.

_What is honor compared to a woman's love?_

It had been six months since Sansa arrived at the Wall, and back into his life, and Jon now realized that his love for her was something that could neither be suppressed nor destroyed. Staring up at the ceiling, he finally concluded that whether it was right or wrong, whether she was free or wed to someone else, whether his love was ever accepted or scorned, he could do nothing but love her for as long as his life should last.


	6. Ghosts In Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"There are ghosts in Winterfell. And I am one of them."_ ~ A Dance With Dragons, The Turncloak

The practice yard rang with the sounds of wooden sparring swords along with loud grunts and thuds. Sansa’s eyes were quickly drawn to the king, his dark hair pulled back in a similar likeness to the way her father used to wear his. She watched as he assisted the new master-at-arms with training several young boys in combat. Half a dozen spectators were shouting advice and encouragement, and Jon’s voice was the loudest of them all.

She smiled as she looked down over the courtyard from the Great Keep’s wooden rail, watching as he gripped the hilt of a wooden sword and began to train with a boy of 13 or 14 years. Jon placed his hand gently on the lad’s shoulder, instructing him, before turning to face and spar. Over and over again the boy was beaten back, falling to the ground, and over and over the king reached down with his hand to help him up. They both laughed and then started again. This continued for several minutes until Jon pat the boy fondly on the head and another lad took his place.

She looked around at the various other men and women moving around the courtyard, going about their work and lives. She saw smiling faces and heads held high. She saw children running and pelting each other with snowballs. When compared to the mood of the castle when Ramsay had been its lord, it was like night and day. She saw peace and contentment filling its walls once more. She saw the Winterfell of her childhood.

Her eyes again found Jon and she gazed upon his handsome face, laughing while the boys continued to train. He raised his head, meeting her gaze, and smiled. Even though she shivered and pulled her cloak tighter about her shoulders, her heart filled with a warmth she hadn’t felt in years. Her eyes softened as her heart swelled. How dear this man was to her now. She thought of the silly ideals of her girlhood, her admiration of knights and princes, and the proud disdain she showed towards those of low birth. She thought of her foolish feelings for Joffrey, for Ser Loras, and for the romanticized heroes in the songs she loved. But what were they when compared to a truly good man?

“Lady Sansa.”

She turned her head and saw Littlefinger standing there, looking at her with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. She hadn’t even heard him approach. “Lord Baelish.”

He gave a slight nod. “You’re looking well on this cold morning.”

“What do you want?” she asked as Brienne appeared in the doorway nearby.

It had been a month since Littlefinger had returned to Winterfell. He sat in on Jon’s council meetings, and he continued to finance the fortification and repair of Moat Cailin. The Knights of the Vale had returned home, but two hundred good archers had been raised to hold the Neck against any armies that could approach from the south. Yet the longer he remained in Winterfell, the more nervous he made her feel. He’d made it clear he wanted the Iron Throne and that he wanted to use her to get it. He’d have to devise a way to remove Cersei from power, and if his original plans had been to use the North to do so, it wasn’t working. The King in the North had no interest in what was happening in King’s Landing, and the same was true of the other northern lords.    

He glanced quickly at Brienne, standing in the threshold behind Sansa, her left hand resting on the hilt of her Valyrian steel sword, before replying. “There is a matter I wanted to discuss with you. I’ve received some strange reports by raven this morning. A fleet of ships has been spotted approaching Dragonstone. Word has it that the sigils of Dorne, the Reach, and the Iron Islands are among the fleet. They’ve sailed across the sea from Essos, no doubt bringing Daenerys Targaryen with them.”

Sansa stared at him. “Daenerys Targaryen?”

“The daughter of Mad King Aerys, the sister of Rhaegar,” he said. “She’s likely returned to reclaim the Iron Throne.”

“From Cersei?” she replied coldly. “Then let her take it.”

Littlefinger eyed her carefully. “You want a Targaryen sitting on the throne again?”

She swallowed. She wasn’t sure whom she hated more, but right now Cersei was winning that battle. “The North has once again declared independence, Lord Baelish. Jon says it doesn’t matter who is on the throne. We have more important things to concern ourselves with now.”

“And you think that once Cersei has been removed, Daenerys won’t come north with her dragons and force you all to bend the knee just like Aegon the Conqueror?” he asked, his gaze penetrating.

She scoffed. “Dragons. Dragons don’t exist anymore. They died off hundreds of years ago.”

He gave her a hard stare. “Daenerys has three. And they’re fully grown. They were seen flying above the fleet.”

Sansa’s mouth fell open. She turned away from Littlefinger and looked down into the courtyard, anxiety clouding her features as she gazed at Jon. “Dragons,” she whispered, her voice filled with worry.

“I leave you to relate this news to the King in the North, if you choose,” he said. “I’m leaving at once and heading for Dragonstone. If diplomatic measures can take place, then they should. Let Jon Snow and the northern lords concern themselves with an army of corpses. Leave Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons to me.”

She tore her eyes from Jon and looked at Lord Baelish, at a loss for words. She merely nodded.

Littlefinger stepped closer, his hands going to her shoulders. “Try not to fear. I know you don’t trust me yet. But please believe me when I say that I will do everything in my power to ensure that no harm ever comes to you again.”

Sansa then watched him walk away. Brienne stepped forward until she stood at her side. “What do you think he’s going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you trust him?” Brienne asked.

She sighed. “I… no. I don’t know.”

*****

Snow was falling on the godswood. Three acres of trees were cloaked with snow, creating a dense canopy of white. Jon stood in the center of the grove in front of the ancient weirwood. The surface of the black pool was covered in a thin film of ice. Jon stared at the carved face of the heart tree. He wasn’t sure if he believed in the old gods anymore. Old gods, new gods, the Red Woman’s Lord of Light – he doubted any of them could help him with his plight. Snow fell around him, cold and silent.

He wanted to ask the heart tree for courage or strength, or perhaps forgiveness. He’d given up fighting his love for Sansa, but he was now trapped in an invisible prison of his own making. He wanted to unburden himself, but there was no one he could tell. He could only keep silent council within his own mind. He wished with all his heart that his lord father was by his side. But there were times when Jon felt that his father was inside the grey walls of Winterfell, which seemed to whisper memories of the past, of his childhood, his father’s words of guidance, his unwavering trust and confidence shown towards him. Was he betraying his father by loving Sansa? Would his father’s ghost seek vengeance? _Catelyn Stark’s surely would._

“Jon.”

He turned and saw the tall, redheaded woman in her Tully-blue cloak trimmed in fur. His heart began to pound. Blinking, it took a moment to recognize that it was Sansa who was standing there. He sighed, almost in relief. He then noticed she looked worried, and took some steps toward her. “What’s wrong?”

“Will you accompany me to the crypts?” she asked.

Giving her a look of surprise, he stared. “Why?”

She chewed her bottom lip. “I wish to speak to you in private.”

He chuckled. “But Sansa, we’re in the godswood. We can speak freely here.”

“As soon as you walk in here, guards move to stand at all the gates,” she whispered. “Besides, anyone could enter the godswood and position themselves among the trees.” She had watched Littlefinger’s carriage and small garrison of Vale knights depart through the East Gate earlier, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t left spies behind. It was safer to assume he had.

Despite his stomach twisting into knots at the thought of entering the crypts, Jon nodded. “All right. Let’s go.”

They were soon walking past the First Keep and found themselves in front of the ironwood door to the crypt of Winterfell. Opening the door, Sansa stepped inside, Jon following behind her, and they began to descend the stone steps spiraling down. They came to a stop when they reached the first level, with its vaulted ceiling and long line of granite pillars. She began to move her way into the crypt, but he remained frozen in place. When she realized he wasn’t by her side, she turned around. “Aren’t you coming along?”

“I don’t belong here,” he said. His heart pounded, his stomach knotted.

“What do you mean?” she replied, amusement in her voice. “We used to play down here as children, remember?”

Jon averted his eyes and didn’t reply.

Sansa walked back to him. “What is it?” she asked quietly.

After a few moments of silence, he began to speak. “I used to have this dream, when I was at the Wall. The same dream, over and over. I’m walking down into the crypts, but I don’t want to go. I’m afraid of what I’ll find. But I can’t run away, I just keep going further and further down into the crypts. The statues of the old Lords of Winterfell and the Kings in the North – they tell me that I’m no Stark, and there isn’t a place for me here. They tell me to leave. But I don’t leave. The lights go out. But I keep walking into the darkness. The vaults open and the dead Kings of Winter come stumbling out. I wake up.” He sighed. “The dream was always the same. I’m no Stark, and I don’t belong here.”

She slipped her hand into his, and squeezed. “You are King in the North. You _do_ belong here. Here is where you will be laid to rest, along with all the other kings.”

“Not too soon, I hope,” he said, his mouth curving into a smirk.

“Come on.” Smiling, she pulled him by the hand and walked with him further into the crypt.

They halted in front of the statue of Lyanna Stark, a lit candle in her stone palm. “Do you remember what happened to her?”

Jon nodded. “Yes, of course.”

She licked her lips, pausing. “Do you remember what happened to our grandfather and our uncle?”

“How could I forget?” he replied. Everyone in the North remembered what happened when Lyanna Stark had been kidnapped. Everyone in the North remembered what happened when Lord Rickard Stark and his eldest son Brandon traveled to King’s Landing to demand Lyanna’s return and Rhaegar Targaryen’s punishment. Everyone in the North remembered how the Mad King burned them alive with wildfire in the throne room. He turned from the statue. “What’s this about?”

Sansa then proceeded to tell him everything that Littlefinger had told her about Daenerys Targaryen, her fleet of ships approaching Westeros, and her three dragons. Jon sighed, rubbing his hand over his eyes. “Dragons to the south, an army of the dead to the north.”

“Littlefinger assumes Daenerys wants the Iron Throne.”

“The Iron Throne,” he scoffed. “Maybe people should try wanting something else for once.”

She smiled at him, her eyes sparkling. She then giggled. “Do you remember that time when you covered yourself in flour, hid down here in the crypt like some ghost, and tried to scare Arya?”

He laughed, the memory coming forward. A memory from happier times. He then sighed. “Do you think she’ll ever come home?”

“You miss her, don’t you?” she asked, her voice turning sad. She also felt a slight twinge of jealousy, but was confused by such a feeling.

“Aye, I do. Very much.”

She gazed at the statue. “Arya was always your favorite.”

Jon lifted an eyebrow. “My favorite?”

“Your favorite sister.” A bitter feeling rose up inside her, full of regret. “I wasn’t a sister to you, not really.”

“Sansa…”

She shook her head. “Father loved you. Robb and Bran and Arya loved you. Rickon, too, even though he was so little when you left for the Wall. They loved you, and you loved them. You love them still. But you were never truly one of us. Mother made sure of that.” She paused, her eyes filling with tears. “I made sure of that.”

“That’s in the past now,” he said. “We were children, Sansa. A lot has happened since then.”

“You _do_ belong here. There will be a place for you here in the crypts with the rest of House Stark. You belong here in Winterfell… You belong here with me.”

Jon’s heart hammered beneath his ribs and his breathing started to quicken as he gazed at her. Their eyes met, and held. The way he looked at her with those brown eyes, as if he was peering into her soul, made her feel different than she’d ever felt before. The way he looked at her not only made her feel wanted and needed, but also beautiful. It was a foreign and unexpected sensation. Goose pimples rose on her skin as he continued to gaze at her. She was suddenly overcome with the desire to lean closer, to embrace him, to caress his face.

A weight settled in the pit of Sansa’s stomach, and she took a step back. Not long after, they were heading for the spiral stone steps. As they ascended in silence, neither of them speaking, she felt uneasy, as if some great conflict had now entered her soul.


	7. Words Like Arrows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Words are like arrows. Once loosed, you cannot call them back." ~ A Feast for Crows, The Captain of the Guards

Sansa walked out of the Great Keep and made her way around the castle, Ghost following her. He’d done so every day for the past fortnight, since Littlefinger departed Winterfell and she’d told Jon about Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons. At times Brienne was busy training her squire Podrick in swordsmanship, and whenever she left Sansa’s side to perform this duty, Ghost inevitably showed up soon after. Glancing down at the direwolf, her eyes narrowed suspiciously as her mouth curved in amusement, and she wondered if his master had something to do with it.

As she moved about the castle, she observed girls by the washing well, performing their duties while happily gossiping together, men working with steel and wood in the courtyard, the hunting dogs running back and forth in the kennels. She passed the Guards Hall, walking by the godswood, passing by the North Gate, and finally came to the glass gardens. They’d been repaired, and she observed gardeners and cooks busy inside tending to fruits, vegetables, and flowers. Pleased with its progress, she walked back through the yard and made her way to the armory.

She found him speaking with the master-at-arms. Nearby there were two young men hardening the points of long wooden spears and tossing them into a pile. Half a dozen other youths were sitting together, fletching arrows. Blacksmiths sharpened axes grown dull from use and hammered out new swords. The young son of the master-at-arms spun the whetstone.

Jon looked up, noticing her in the threshold. He smiled. “Sansa.”

“Will you have some leisure time today?” she asked.

“I have time right now.” After speaking some last words to the master-at-arms, he walked towards her, and they stepped out of the armory together. “What did you want?”

She hesitated, feeling slightly awkward, but she wasn’t sure why. “Uh… would you like to go riding with me?”

He gave her a look of surprise. “What about Lady Brienne? Or some other young lady friends you’d much rather spend your time with? The steward’s daughter, or…?"

“Brienne is busy being a knight,” she said, laughing a little. “I could’ve asked any number of young ladies in the castle, but I’m asking you. There’s no one I’d rather spend time with.” Sansa blushed at the admission, averting her eyes, and inwardly chided herself for something so silly. Butterflies fluttered nervously in her stomach, a feeling she couldn’t explain.

Jon stared at her, wishing she wouldn’t say such things. He felt pulled in two directions. Getting the mastery over his thoughts was a difficult enough task without hearing her speak so kindly of him, without watching the way her cheeks turned pink as she did so. He knew he should keep his distance. It would be a protection, for her and for him. But he didn’t have the strength to stay away.

Horses were soon saddled and bridled. They exited the castle through the Hunter’s Gate along with Bill Liddle, Luke Norrey, and Owen Wull, their guards. Once Jon had been declared King in the North, a large number of young men from the northern mountain clans made for Winterfell and offered their service. As more and more arrived, Sansa had increased her efforts in restoring the winter town to house them all.     

The air was crisp as they rode toward the wolfswood, but the sun was shining. She was sitting next to him on her saddle. He gripped his own reins and smiled at her. Despite the cold, a warmth flowed between them. Their hearts were full as they rode through the snow. She had a strong feeling that her life was going to change, that something great or even terrible was on the horizon. Maybe it was the calm before the storm. But whether the storm that reached them first came from the north or the south, she couldn’t know.

They soon came to the woods and slowed their horses as they entered the tree line. The guards rode ahead, scanning the woods as they slowly made their way through. Ghost disappeared somewhere among the trees. Sansa felt in awe of the beauty of the snow-covered land, and wondered at how foolish she’d been as a girl who wanted nothing more than to leave this place. This was where she belonged.

“I received a raven from Lord Manderly this morning,” Jon said to her as they caught up to their guards. “He’s departed White Harbor for Winterfell, and he’s bringing along his granddaughters.”

“His granddaughters? That’s quite the journey for two maidens, especially now that winter is here.”

He sighed. “Aye. They should stay home within the safe walls of their castle.”

Bill Liddle chuckled. “There are weddings even in the winter, Your Grace. And a king without a queen is a handsome prospect for any House.”

Jon's stomach twisted into tight knots at hearing those words. Would that truly be expected of him? They were preparing for the wars to come. Why would he have to marry? But he recalled how marriage played into Robb's alliances as King in the North, and how it attributed to his downfall. He glanced at the radiant woman beside him, seated on her white horse. The words of his guard began to stab him repeatedly in the gut, as if they were the shards of a heart that would soon break.

Sansa stared at the back of Bill Liddle’s helmet-covered head. She felt inexplicably angry. “Did they have to come along?” she whispered to Jon.

He opened his mouth to reply when Luke Norrey spoke up. “A king should never be unguarded, m’lady.”

“Nor the Lady Stark of Winterfell,” added Owen Wull.

Jon laughed at the annoyed expression on her face. “I suppose we’ll have a welcoming feast for House Manderly. When was the last time that highborn ladies were guests in the castle? We’ll need singers, and musicians for dancing, I imagine.”

Sansa turned her annoyed look on him. “And what are you going to do when Lord Manderly asks you to marry one of his granddaughters? Have a dance and sing a song?”

“You’re jumping to conclusions,” he replied, uncomfortable with the topic, his stomach knotting. “They probably just want to visit Winterfell.”

“Yes, that’s always the reason given. But it’s never the _real_ reason. Do you remember how the high lords would prance up their daughters to meet Robb?”

He sighed. “I think I was forced to dance with a few of them.”

Her face softened. “You were so sullen when you had to dance.”

“You’ll have to learn to enjoy dancing now, Your Grace,” spoke Bill Liddle as he rode in front of them. “A king will need to dance with his queen on his wedding day.”

Jon’s heart sank, and his expression turned somber. Sansa contemplated fixing a snowball and throwing it at Bill Liddle’s head.


	8. Knight Of Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The Dragonknight once won a tourney as the Knight of Tears, so he could name his sister the queen of love and beauty in place of the king's mistress." ~ A Storm of Swords, Bran II

House Manderly arrived in Winterfell after a journey of three weeks from White Harbor, and had been placed in the Guest House. The following morning, servants and vassals were scurrying about getting ready for the welcoming feast which was to begin in the forepart of the afternoon and continue into the night. The cooks were preparing mushroom soup, venison, and a variety of cakes. Some servants were busy at work opening casks of wine and mead, transferring their contents into large flagons. Others were bringing fresh evergreen boughs into the Great Hall, in hopes they might add to the enjoyment of the feast by the fragrant perfume of the wolfswood they carried. The logs in the hearth of the Great Hall sputtered and crackled cheerily, adding a cozy warmth to the big room.

Jon Snow stepped into his council chambers, Tormund Giantsbane and Davos Seaworth following him. They sat down at the table and Jon passed them the letter he’d received by raven that morning. Davos read it aloud, before sighing and setting it down. “This… Daenerys Targaryen has certainly caused some trouble in the Iron Islands,” he said.

“Trouble?” replied Tormund. “It only sounds like she’s given rulership back to the rightful Salt king.” He tilted his head from side to side. “Or… Salt queen, I suppose. This Yara Greyjoy.” He nodded toward the letter lying on the table top.

“My guess is it won’t be long before Daenerys Targaryen will seek to parley with you,” Davos said to Jon.

He stared. “A parley with dragons isn’t really a parley, Davos.” He leaned back in his chair, thinking. “You try telling the northern high lords that their King in the North wants to parley with a Targaryen.”

Tormund shrugged. “Look at you and me, at what we were in the beginning. But then you not only allowed the free folk to enter Castle Black and pass south beyond the Wall, you’ve welcomed us to the lands surrounding Winterfell. Your highborn lady of a sister makes sure the free folk are clothed and well fed, and the free folk all adore her. We are great friends now, not foes. Who’s to say that you and this dragon queen could not possibly become allies?”

Jon looked at the hearth, thinking, and rubbed his hand over his mouth, elbow bent on the arm of his chair. “What are the chances Daenerys Targaryen will keep to the south and leave the North alone?”

Davos sighed, and looked down at the table. “Judging by her ancestors that came before her, then I wouldn’t say that’s in her nature.”

Watching the fire in the hearth, Jon thought of the North burning in a blaze of revenge, of their independence once again vanquished because of a Targaryen conqueror. But most of all he thought of Sansa, of how precious her life was to him and what could become of her if the dragons of Daenerys flew north to Winterfell.

*****

The Great Hall rang with music and laughter, and the warmth of friendship, though the cold winter winds blew outside. Wine and roast meat was served. Torches and candles were lit as the sky darkened. Jon and Sansa sat side by side on the raised platform at the front of the hall, Brienne to her left and Davos to his right. After they’d supped, they spoke quietly together and drank mead from their cups. During a lull in the music, Lord Wyman Manderly approached the platform with his son, Ser Wylis Manderly, his wife Leona of House Woolfield, and their two daughters, Wynafryd and Wylla. They all bowed and paid respects.

The eldest daughter, Wynafryd, a maid of seventeen, wore a warm wool dress of Manderly blue-green. Her brown hair was bound in a long braid that hung over her left shoulder. Wylla, who could be no older than fifteen years, had chosen a wool dress of dark grey, richly embroidered in silver around the sleeves and collar. Her blonde hair was held in an even longer braid than her sister, and was dyed a garish shade of green. Neither was tremendously beautiful, though they were pretty enough. But there was pride and strength in the way the girls stood upright, holding their heads high and unafraid to meet the eyes of Lady Stark or their king. They somehow reminded Sansa of Arya, and she immediately liked them. Yet she knew House Manderly must intend to marry one of them to Jon, and her brows creased with anxiety as she watched them return to their table.

Soon the dancing started, and the flutes and fiddles grew louder with increased merriment. Several younger knights and cavalrymen sworn to House Manderly asked Sansa to dance as well as Podrick Payne, whose face turned an alarming shade of red when doing so. She laughed and spun to her heart’s content. Jon remained at their table, watching her enjoyment with a smile upon his face. She hadn’t spoken in great detail of what her life had been when married to Ramsay Bolton, or what her life had been in King’s Landing following the death of their father, but she’d told him enough. And what he didn’t know, he suspected. To see her now, in the blue dress with the embroidered direwolf that he liked so much, smiling and eyes sparkling, made his heart swell. He loved her, and it made him feel good to see her happy.  

It was the fourth hour of the welcoming feast. Sansa stood next to Jon and Davos, sipping from a cup of sweet golden wine. They watched the musicians, singers, and dancing partners, a mixture of northern houses, highborn and baseborn.

“This must seem rather trivial when compared to the grand occasions you partook in while in the capital,” said Davos. “With the elegant highborn ladies in their silk finery and true southron knights with their intricately fashioned armor.”

“I used to place such importance on those things,” Sansa sighed. “And I had thought that King’s Landing was where all my silly dreams would come true.” She turned her head to look at Jon. “The men of the North are made of iron and ice. And even the boldest and bravest true knights of the south fear them. A man’s worth is not marked by having a _ser_ in front of his name. Or how noble or low his birth.”

Davos smiled. “You’re quite right, my lady.”

Jon looked at her, and they stared at one another for a long moment. The candlelight was dancing in his eyes, and she saw love and affection in his gaze. Sansa’s stomach filled with a pleasant fluttery feeling, like butterflies trapped in a glass jar. Fighting the urge to grasp hold of her hand, he tore his eyes from her and turned back to their guests.

With much hearty persuasion fueled by ale, Lord Manderly eventually pushed Jon to dance with both of his granddaughters. Sansa watched with some amusement at the brooding expression on his face as he danced with Wynafryd, then Wylla, and then forced to partner again with Wynafryd for a third dance. She glanced at Lord Manderly, standing against the opposite wall with his son and Lady Leona. They looked on Wynafryd and the king with smiles and nods of approval. Sansa’s stomach knotted with a fear she couldn’t explain, and she felt close to tears at the thought of losing Jon to one of those maids from White Harbor.

Soon the dancing came to a brief halt. Cakes and more wine were served. Jon walked over to where Sansa stood in front of the raised platform, speaking with Brienne who remained seated at their table. She turned as he approached. “You dance rather well for someone who hates the act so much,” Sansa teased.

“If that is a compliment, then I guess I’ll take it,” he replied with a grin. “Wylla Manderly has green hair,” he then said matter-of-factly.

“Yes, she does.”

Jon shook his head, dumbfounded, his brows furrowing.

Sansa laughed nervously. She wondered what he thought of Wylla’s older sister, but didn’t want to ask.

The music then started again, and young men and women began lining up to dance. Jon noticed several men turn their attention to Sansa as she made to move towards the other dancers.

“Who are you going to dance with?” he blurted out.

“Well, I’d happily dance with you if you’d ask me,” she replied. She felt her face grow hot, and her stomach fluttered nervously.

Jon smiled warmly, gazing at her with adoring eyes. Then Wyman Manderly’s large, strong hand clasped his shoulder, turning him around. The Lord of White Harbor laughed heartily at the king’s audible groan, and led him towards the other dancers to stand across from Wynafryd. Sansa sighed. But Podrick was instantly by her side, and bowing his head, asked her to dance. With heartfelt gratitude, she gladly accepted. She soon found herself positioned near Lady Lyanna Mormont, and with a look of surprise, saw Ser Davos standing across from the girl. Sansa smiled.

The hall rang with the sound of flutes and pipes and fiddles, and the dancing began. Sansa allowed herself to be swept up in the dance, losing herself in the steps, the music spinning her with one partner before separating them and joining her with another. Podrick stood opposite her at first, and then young Brandon Tallhart, and then Arthor Karstark. Partners changed again. Davos told her she looked beautiful. Ser Wylis Manderly wished her a happier marriage in the future.

And then the dance brought Sansa face-to-face with Jon. Excitement welled up inside them, and their hearts started to beat furiously in their chests. The pit of her stomach tightened as his hand touched hers. He grasped her hand gently and drew her closer to him until their bodies touched. As they whirled to the music, his forehead briefly touched hers. No longer brooding or sullen, his softened expression bore a twinkling smile of adoration for the woman he loved. As they danced, she melted. Never for a moment had he taken his eyes from hers, but held them with an intensity that made her heart pound.

Partners changed. Their feet and arms obeyed the steps and rhythms of the dance. It wasn’t long before Jon swept Sansa into his arms again, his hands gripping her hand and her waist. She felt his heat, felt his breath, the hardness of his chest. He slowed their movements as the dance finally came to an end, but instead of twirling her round him as all the other men did their partners, he simply held her, staring into her eyes until the music ceased. Smiling, eyes sparkling, she leaned closer and lightly brushed her nose against his, before turning and dispersing along with the other ladies.

From the raised platform, watching the dance from her seat at the head table, Brienne’s eyes narrowed.

*****

The following evening, Jon and Sansa sat in front of the hearth in the council chambers. Sitting side by side in comfortable companionship, they each felt a warmth that had little to do with the fire blazing nearby, their thoughts frequently drifting to the dance the night before.

“More letters arrived about Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons,” he said. Sighing, he tossed a scroll onto the small table next to him. “Lords in the south are frightened. Northern lords are enraged. We can’t afford to get involved. The White Walkers are coming. The Targaryens are hated, and perhaps rightfully so, but we can’t let old grudges distract us.”

“Not all Targaryens were bad, Jon,” she replied. “Although the ones who harmed our family certainly were.”

He looked over at her, glancing down at the open book that lay in her lap, and grinned. “Reading about Aemon the Dragonknight again, are you?”

Blushing, she averted her eyes. “Yes.”

“Read to me?” he requested, leaning back in his chair and entwining his fingers over his stomach. “I’m tired of these scrolls. None have brought me good news.”

Smiling, she nodded, feeling pleased. Sansa then began to read of Aemon the Dragonknight, the noblest knight who ever lived, and the legendary way he handled his Valyrian steel sword. She read of his doomed love for his sister, Naerys, who, despite her love for him, wed their older brother Aegon and eventually became queen. She read of Aemon’s tears during the wedding ceremony, his quarrel with Aegon during the feast, and of Naerys weeping during the bedding ceremony. She read of Aemon joining the Kingsguard to stay close to Naerys. She read of the horrid Ser Morgil Hastwyck, who accused Queen Naerys of adultery and treason. She read of Aemon defeating Ser Morgil in a trial by combat to defend his sister’s honor. She read of Aegon forbidding Aemon to take part in a tournament because he wanted to crown his mistress, but Aemon joined the tourney disguised as the Knight of Tears. After winning, he crowned his beloved sister Naerys as the Queen of Love and Beauty by presenting her with a wreath of flowers and dedicating his victory to her. She read how Aemon the Dragonknight died honorably as a Kingsguard, fighting to defend the life of his brother Aegon, who despised him. She read how Queen Naerys bitterly grieved his death, and then died in childbirth a year later.

Sansa closed the book, gazing at the hearth. She listened to the sound of the crackling fire and Jon’s breathing, slow and calm. She looked over and saw that his eyes were closed and his lips parted. With his dark curls hanging loose about his face and his features relaxed and at peace, he had never looked more content, or more handsome. She was almost afraid to break the spell, yet she rose from her chair and went to kneel beside his. She watched him sleep, smiling to herself. Without thinking, she moved closer, hovering over him. She couldn’t resist brushing her lips ever so lightly over his in the gentlest of kisses.

“I love you, Jon,” she whispered, barely breathing the words, before quietly leaving the room and heading for her bedchamber, her head full of confusion.

Upon closing the door, she leaned back against it. Why had she done that? Sansa wasn’t sure. She only knew that she’d wanted to, and so she did. She thought of the words she’d whispered. She had meant them. She did love him. She did. But she thought of her love for Robb and her love for Bran, for little Rickon. She didn’t love Jon like she loved them. She’d always felt differently for him than for them, and had used this as an excuse to keep him at arm’s length when she was a child, to separate him from her “real” brothers.

But now, she imagined she was still down in Jon’s council chambers in front of the fire, hovering over him, brushing her lips softly against his. Yet she now imagined that he hadn’t been sleeping at all, that he’d been awake and had taken her into his arms, passionately returning her kiss. She let out a gasp, her eyes widening at the nature of her thoughts. Horrified by her desires, and by the intense love now burning in her heart, a wave of despair washed over her. Sansa sank to the floor, eyes filling with tears. On the other side of her chamber door, Ghost whimpered and scratched at the wood, wanting to be let inside.


	9. A Castle Has No Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ned would not speak of the mother, not so much as a word, but a castle has no secrets, and Catelyn heard her maids repeating tales they heard from the lips of her husband's soldiers." ~ A Game of Thrones, Catelyn II

Snow was falling over the castle. Sansa stepped out of the Great Keep in the early morning to find the courtyard filled with noise. Men were shouting orders, wagons and carriages were being loaded, and horses were being saddled and harnessed and led out from the stables. After a fortnight spent in Winterfell, House Manderly was preparing to depart for White Harbor, a three weeks’ journey southeast.

Upon spotting a girl with a long braid of green hair move into the courtyard, Sansa descended the stone steps, Brienne following her. She soon greeted the maids of White Harbor, Wynafryd and Wylla Manderly, as they stood next to their carriage. The girls smiled and dipped in a curtsy as she approached.

“I hope you enjoyed visiting Winterfell,” Sansa remarked.

“We’ve always wanted to visit this castle,” said Wynafryd with a smile.

Nodding, Wylla’s expression then turned into a slight frown. “That was the pretext of our visit, but not the real reason, of course. Father thought my sister might make a match with the king. I don’t think our visit was successful.”   

Wynafryd blushed profusely with embarrassment and gave her sister a hard look. “We enjoyed the welcoming feast immensely, Lady Stark. I danced with the king several times. He was very courteous and said that I danced beautifully, but he was so… sullen about it. He didn’t warm up to us at all.”

“Yes, he is a bit brooding, isn’t he?” said Brienne. “Although he seemed to rather enjoy himself when dancing with his sister.” Sansa’s face fell, and with a feeling of slight panic she wondered if she’d heard something slightly accusatory in her tone.

“Father said broodiness was to be expected in a bastard,” said Wylla with a shrug. Wynafryd’s eyes widened and she gave the Lady of Winterfell a fearful look, before turning and reprimanding her sister for speaking that way of the king. Wylla only looked defiant. “I didn’t intend for it to be an insult. I don’t care that he’s a bastard. What does that matter? He’s King in the North and Stark blood runs through his veins. Grandfather says that he’s got more Stark in him than King Robb ever had, may the gods give him rest.”

Sansa gave the maidens a brief smile, but made no reply to their statements. She then wished them a safe journey home. Servants then assisted the girls into a waiting carriage. Soon after she saw their parents, Ser Wylis Manderly and Lady Leona, helped into another carriage. Lord Wyman Manderly was remaining behind in Winterfell, and he stood next to Jon in the courtyard, bidding his family farewell.

Her eyes then met Jon’s and he smiled, but she quickly looked away and walked toward the glass gardens, her stomach tightening into knots. She worried he’d be able to see right through her, with eyes shining like brown stars, and that he would then learn things about her that he shouldn’t. As much as she secretly yearned for him to love her in return, the notion that he would find out how she truly felt for him in her heart frightened her. No good could come from it. At best, embarrassment. At worst, shame and dishonor.

Jon watched her go, his brows creasing with worry, as something deep in his chest clutched at him and ached. Since that night they’d sat in front of the fire in his council chambers as she read him the doomed tale of Aemon Targaryen and Queen Naerys, he hadn’t spent much time with her. They supped together during the evening meal every night for the past two weeks, along with the Manderlys and other guests, but she failed to join him afterwards in his council chambers.

The night before, he’d called to her as she left the Great Hall following the meal, but either she hadn’t heard him or she’d ignored him. Bill Liddle, standing guard behind him, had remarked that she might be mad with moon blood. The other two guards standing with him also chuckled and nodded in agreement, but one hard look from their king silenced the three of them immediately. They’d instantly withered, their red faces dropping to the floor.

Jon watched Sansa disappear beyond the Guest House, Brienne following behind. Moon blood or no, there was no doubt that he was now seeing less and less of her. He tried not to think that she was avoiding him, but the harder he tried, the more convinced he felt that she was. He had initially wondered if the Manderly sisters and their family’s unspoken intentions had something to do with her distance. He’d decided to wait it out, hoping that things would go back to normal after their departure from Winterfell. He hoped in vain.

Once the castle had been free of House Manderly’s presence and it became common knowledge that no marriage pact had been arranged between them, Sansa returned to him. It was like a happy reunion. They smiled and laughed, rode together in the wolfswood, visited the wildlings. In many ways she was her old, stubborn, beautiful, and happy self. It was as if she was relieved that she had not lost him after all. But despite this, Jon had noticed a dramatic change in her attitude and behavior. She again started to sit by the fire with him in the evenings like she used to. But whenever she was with him, she appeared nervous, restless, and somewhat distant. She'd grown quieter. He thought she seemed to be worried about something, and he felt sure that whatever it was, she did not want to discuss the matter with him. It was almost as if she was afraid that he would discover a secret she was keeping, but what that was he had no idea.

*****

Sansa took the seat to Jon’s left at the table inside the Winterfell council chambers. Around the table sat Ser Davos Seaworth, Lady Lyanna Mormont, Lord Wyman Manderly, Lord Robett Glover, Lord Cley Cerwyn, Lord Harrion Karstark, Lord Brandon Tallhart, Lord Rodrick Ryswell, his daughter Lady Barbrey Dustin, Lord Torghen Flint, and Tormund Giantsbane, newly-named Lord of the Last Hearth.  

“No one from House Reed has come?” asked Lord Karstark.

“No, Harry,” answered Jon. “The crannogmen now hold Moat Cailin, and several weeks ago Lady Sansa received a raven from Lord Howland Reed, renewing their oath to House Stark. But there’s been no communication since.”

Ryswell shook his head, rolling his eyes. “No one has seen Howland Reed since he and Ned Stark came home from Robert’s Rebellion. I doubt he’d show himself now for a simple council meeting.”

The group then discussed the usual topics – fortifying Castle Black and the Wall, strengthening the defenses of their own strongholds, searching for any and all dragonglass, storing up enough food and supplies for winter, and also disturbing reports concerning King’s Landing and what had been dubbed the “Reign of the Mad Queen.” Talk then turned to the future and security of several northern houses, including House Stark, and the need of heirs to continue the family lines. Several high lords debated options for marriage contracts and lordship appointments. Jon noticed when Sansa stiffened and lowered her gaze to the table.

Stemming the flow of that particular topic, Jon picked up the letter that he received from Samwell Tarly the day before. “The Citadel is sending Daenerys Targaryen a maester,” he said, glancing down at the opened scroll of paper. “So she can be counseled and protected. There seems to be a belief that she is the fulfillment of a prophecy…”

“‘Born amidst salt and smoke, beneath a bleeding star,’” Davos recited. His face hardened. “I know the prophecy. The Red Woman believed Stannis to be the one, and then Lord Snow.”

The young girl seated at his side turned towards him, and lifted her eyebrow. “You mean _King Jon_.”

He smiled at Lyanna Mormont with some amusement. “Aye, my lady. King Jon.”

Reddening with some embarrassment, Jon waved his hand at them. “There’s no need for that here.” He was still not used to his new status, or title. It made him feel uncomfortable and even uneasy at times.

“Prophecies should be left well enough alone,” concluded Davos.

Jon glanced down at Sam’s letter and read the last line aloud. “‘Daenerys is the only hope against the Others.’”

The room fell silent. “What do you think?” he then asked Sansa.

“I don’t know the prophecy,” she replied. “But it’s probably safe to assume that dragonfire would work well against an army of the dead.”

“It would also work well for any Targaryen that wanted to burn Winterfell to the ground,” remarked Lord Glover bitterly. “We don’t need to ally ourselves with a foreign whore.”

All the other lords started talking at once. Jon glanced between a silent Tormund and Davos, exchanging concerned looks. Just then there was a knock on the chamber door. “Your Grace,” said a guard upon stepping inside the room. “A Ser Bronn of the Blackwater has arrived at the castle and wishes for an audience with you and Lady Stark.”

Sansa’s eyes widened.

“Blackwater?” replied Jon with a look of confusion.

“The Battle of the Blackwater,” Sansa explained. “When Stannis attacked King’s Landing.”

He looked at her and their eyes held for a moment. “Do you know him?”

She swallowed, nodding. “Yes. He serves the Lannisters.”

Fifteen minutes later, Jon and Sansa were seated in the audience chamber along with Davos. Brienne and Podrick stood against the wall behind them. Guards were stationed at the front and back of the room. The doors then opened, and Bronn entered the chamber, walking to the front. He respectfully bowed, and then stood facing the long table. He had a lean, rather wolfish appearance, with dark eyes and hair, and stubble for a beard.

“Lady Stark, I must say that I am very pleased to find you looking so well,” said Bronn. “The last time I saw you in King’s Landing, uh, things weren’t going so well for you, and…”

“What brings a Lannister sellsword this far north?” Jon asked, abruptly cutting him off.

Bronn lifted up both hands, showing his palms as if in surrender. “Your Grace, I am now the lord of a castle, a man of honor and…”

Brienne stared. “You’re an insolent, black-hearted rogue.”

“Yes, but I’m a likable one,” he quipped. He then turned a smirk towards her squire. “Telling tales about me, Pod, eh?”

Podrick’s face reddened, but he returned the remark with a sarcastic look.

“Why are you here?” Sansa asked coldly. “If you think I’m going back to the capital to face a trial for Joffrey’s murder…”

Bronn shook his head. “I don’t serve the queen. I’m here on behalf of Jaime Lannister.”

She scoffed. “Same thing.”

“Uh, well, my lady, that was true at one time,” he replied. “But that is no longer the case. Queen Cersei commanded her brother to come to Winterfell and either take you by force back to King’s Landing, or kill you. He decided to do neither, and is currently residing in the Riverlands, defying the queen. He finally realized there’s no cure for being a cunt, and he’s all the better for it. House Frey is finished, as I’m sure you know, and Jaime is holding the Twins with the Lannister forces.”

“Why are you here?” Jon repeated the question, his expression matching the steel in his tone.

Bronn reached for a scroll inside his cloak and pulled it out. “A copy of this is being sent to every noble house of Westeros as well as to the Red Keep.” Clearing his throat, he glanced down at the scroll in his hand. He couldn’t read, but he’d memorized its contents. “Jaime Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, has officially declared for House Stark and supports the claim of Jon Snow, King in the North, as well as northern independence from the Iron Throne.” He then looked up at their stunned faces and sighed. “I wish I could be there when the raven reaches the queen. Oh, what a sight that would be to behold.”

No one spoke, and they simply stared at him in disbelief.

Bronn cleared his throat again. “Ser Jaime also said that he would offer Sansa Stark his fealty and his sword, in honor of a promise once made to her mother, Lady Catelyn, but both seem to be in the possession of his friend, Brienne of Tarth. But he pledges to faithfully guard the Riverlands from any foes who seek to harm House Stark, and will deny passage through the Crossing at the Twins to any forces who wish to invade the North… uh, until the end of his days. And with the way things are going with mad queens on the loose and dragons no less, it could come sooner than one might think. But I suppose that’s true for any of us.” He bounced on his heels. “Now, would it be possible for me to get some food and drink, and maybe even a place to sleep for a few days? Traveling all the way to Winterfell is a real bitch.”

Everyone continued to stare, speechless. A hint of a smile started to spread across Brienne’s blushing face.

*****

Bronn proved to be an interesting and entertaining addition to their table during evening meals. It was almost enough to distract Jon from the noticeable changes in Sansa since the high lords’ council meeting. She stopped coming to sit with him in the council chambers after supper, and only did so if he requested that she join him. She was slowly becoming more withdrawn, and wouldn’t speak unless he directly engaged her.

One week after Bronn’s arrival, Jon and Sansa were quietly making their way up to their bedchambers, Ghost following them. She hadn’t spoken ten words to him all day. As they sat by the fire, her brows frequently knitted, anxiety clouding her features. Yet she would not speak of what was troubling her. He’d wanted to ask her to explain her worries, but he felt frightened of what he might find out. So he followed her up the stone steps in silence, his guts twisting into knots, until they reached her chamber door.

With a smile that somehow looked sad, she wished him goodnight and then reached for the door latch.

“What is the matter, Sansa?” he asked, hastily blurting out the words he’d been afraid to ask.

She turned back to face him. “Nothing at all. I’m fine.”

His eyes looked her over. “You look pale. Are you getting sick?”                           

“No, Jon. I am quite well. I’m just a little tired.”

He looked at her more closely, and she averted her eyes from his, avoiding his penetrating gaze. “You’re depressed,” he said. “Why? What’s happened?”

Her eyes began to shine with tears. “Nothing has happened. I’m not depressed.”

“Sansa.” He whispered her name earnestly, full of concern, causing her heart to swell, and then break at the love she heard in his voice. He stepped closer, his hand moving to gently stroke her arm. “You are depressed. What has upset you? Have I done something to hurt you?”

She shook her head, still unable to meet his eyes.

He thought back to the high lords’ council meeting as well as her distance while the maids from White Harbor had been in Winterfell. “Was it all that talk of marriage pacts and producing heirs?” he asked quietly.

She bit her bottom lip, trying to fight back the tears threatening to escape.

“You will never marry again unless you consent to it,” he said, his voice full of determination. “You will never again be forced into a marriage against your will. I promise.” He sighed, remembering some comments made by those northern lords. “I know we were never close, and that you never thought I had a rightful place among your family. I know what you must still think of me, deep down, the way you’ve always thought of me, and you’re not wrong. I _am_ a bastard.”

She finally looked at him, her tears welling up and brimming over.

He gripped her shoulders gently. “ _Your_ sons and daughters will be the lords and ladies of Winterfell. Not mine. I would never take Winterfell from you. You’re a true Stark, and this is your home. This will always be your home. I know you may not believe me, and I know you may not completely trust me yet, or have yet to love me like a real brother, but…”

“You know _nothing_ ,” she said tearfully, her expression hardening. “The walls of this castle know more than you.”

Jon stared agape, bewildered and hurt as if she had struck him. Ygritte’s words resounded inside his head, and even though he now heard a different woman’s voice, the message was clear. Suddenly, the realization dawned on him – women had an inner life, full of hopes and dreams that they kept hidden like secrets. His fingers curved around her arms, her hands going instinctively to his chest, and he gazed at her with an intensity that caused goose bumps to rise on her skin. He wanted to say so much to her – how when he was at his lowest, she’d made his life seem hopeful again, that he loved her more than he had ever loved anyone. But fear made him choke on the words, and he held back. How could she possibly feel for him the way he felt for her?

Sansa saw the passion in his eyes and felt an incredible sense of power radiating from him. It was a good feeling, one that seemed to wash across her with his care and devotion, his love. _Love?_ As she studied his serious features, she realized that somehow, at some time, Jon Snow had begun to fall in love with her.

He swallowed, his thumbs moving in circles over her arms. “Sansa… I want to tell you…”

“I know, Jon,” she whispered. She felt frightened, but also desperately wished that he would kiss her this time. They stared at one another, each agonizing over the fear that clashed with their desires. And then she took a step back, his hands dropping from her arms. Nothing good would come from declarations. Nothing was worth what they could risk to lose. “But please don’t.”

Sansa quickly turned and grasped hold of the latch, before disappearing behind her chamber door.


	10. Their Shame And Their Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "For she was his secret treasure,  
> she was his shame and his bliss.  
> And a chain and a keep are nothing,  
> compared to a woman's kiss." ~ A Storm of Swords, Tyrion IV

Jon sat by the fire in his council chambers, staring into the hearth, lost in thought. He hadn’t seen Sansa in three days, not since that night they’d stood outside her chamber door and he’d almost poured out the secrets of his heart. But he hadn’t needed to speak them, for she knew. She saw the truth in his eyes, his face. He also saw truths in her face, in her eyes. He doubted they would ever speak the words. They both knew, and that was enough. It need not ever be said aloud. For how could they ever speak of their love without also speaking of their shame?

He thought back to the evening two nights ago. He’d been hoping to see her, to somehow explain or apologize for the awkwardness the night before. But Sansa hadn’t left her chambers all day. She didn’t go about her duties nor did she join him in the hall for the evening meal. He’d supped with Davos, Tormund, Bronn, Brienne, and Podrick, but his sister had never appeared. Following the meal, he was making his way toward his council chambers when he'd heard the sound of a faint sobbing. He'd immediately stopped and looked towards one of the spiral stairs, his brows furrowing in confusion. _Who was crying?_

“Lady Stark, Your Grace,” said a maidservant quietly, her voice somber.

He’d turned to see an older woman with greying dark hair, standing there holding a small bucket of water. He then looked back towards the stone steps. _Sansa?_

“I would know that sound anywhere, m'lord,” she’d continued sadly. “We heard it every day and every night for months, the lady sobbing in her bridal bed. Of course, that was when she was Lady Bolton.”

He’d then looked back at the woman, at the misery etched across her face, and his stomach turned so fiercely he thought he might be sick.

“The sound of Ned Stark’s daughter weeping did more to break our hearts than anything that Bolton monster did to us,” she had said, her eyes becoming wet. “And we could do nothing. We couldn’t save her. The shame we felt, when we thought of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn. May the gods forgive us.”

He had shaken his head, placing a calming hand on her shoulder. “There was nothing anyone could do then. But it’s over now. The Boltons are no more. Fetch some tea and I will take it to Lady Sansa.”

It wasn’t long before he had been climbing the granite steps to their section of the castle, carrying a platter, and then was outside Sansa’s bedchamber. He’d knocked and said her name, but she’d only told him to go away. He’d told her that he had some hot tea for her, but she’d only stated that she didn’t want it. Leaning closer to the door, he had then begun speaking quietly. “Sansa… men say that bastard children are born from lust and lies, that they have a wanton and treacherous nature. You know the sayings, just as well as I do. All I’ve ever wanted since I can remember is to prove them all wrong. I swear on the life of our father that I will never deal treacherously with you or harm you, nor will I ever bring you dishonor. Please trust me, Sansa.”

She’d made no reply and he had then walked away from the door, leaving her alone. She still had not shown herself around the castle for the next two days, but at least the crying was not heard again. For the past two days, he kept hoping she would show herself, and wished that things could be back to the way they were before. What if she never wanted to be near him again? Had he lost his constant companion?

Jon watched as Ghost laid his head on his paws and went to sleep in front of him. He then stared at the fire crackling in the hearth, and sighed. His heart ached for the void he was now starting to feel. Three days without her only made him long for her presence more. He didn’t know how long he sat staring at the fire when the direwolf suddenly lifted its head from its paws and looked toward the doorway. He turned and saw her standing in the threshold, a tinge of color in her cheeks, her eyes warm and sparkling with an inner excitement, her lips trembling slightly. His heart beating rapidly, his senses flooding with both relief and fear, he gave her a hesitant smile.

Sansa then stepped into the council chamber, taking the seat beside his in front of the fire, needlework in hand, and began quietly sewing without a word. Being close to him sent her thoughts spinning. It made her heart sing and her body thrum with a powerful need, but it also sent a sharp ache through her. She loved him, and she knew he loved her. But there was no need to speak of it, for there was nothing that could be done about it. Winterfell had seen enough disgrace to last a lifetime. She refused to pollute its walls, to shame the memory of her parents. There was safety and security knowing Jon felt the same.

Smiling, Jon began to read his letters and notices aloud to Sansa as she continued to sew the new dress she was working on. Neither of them spoke of their last conversation outside her bedchamber door, nor of the three days she had spent locking herself away. They simply sat in comfortable companionship, and enjoyed being near each other once again. After a while, she grew tired and stilled her hands, leaning her head against the chair. He noticed her eyes growing heavy and set the scroll down onto the small table next to him.

“Let’s go to bed, Sansa,” he said with a sigh.

She turned and watched him stand up from his chair, feeling flushed, and the pit of her stomach tightening at his words. He stepped closer, and then held out his hand to her. “I’ll walk you up to your chamber.”

Her belly fluttering nervously and her heart pounding, she reached for his hand and stood. Abandoning her needlework in the chair, she quietly walked with him through the castle, up the granite steps that led to the family bedchambers, all the while her small palm held firmly and gently in his larger, stronger one until they came to her door.

“Goodnight, Sansa,” he said with a twinkling smile, letting go of her hand.

“Goodnight, Jon.” She gazed warmly at him for a long moment, before turning the door latch and disappearing inside her chamber.

From then on, Jon and Sansa spent their days caring for their duties, but they never remained apart for very long. They supped side by side, smiling and laughing with their tablemates. They faithfully spent their nights together by the hearth in the council chambers. Sometimes they sat reading in silence, sometimes they spoke of things which had nothing to do with the topic that dominated their thoughts. But holding a shameful secret in their hearts had not made it any less true. Never telling, never speaking of it, had not turned it into some half-remembered dream. With each passing day, their happiness grew the more intense, their love grew deeper and stronger. And whenever their eyes met, a thousand unspoken words passed between them.


	11. The Blood Of Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He was the blood of Winterfell, a man of the Night's Watch. _I will not father a bastard,_ he told her. _I will not. I will not._ 'You know nothing, Jon Snow,' she whispered." ~ A Storm of Swords, Jon VI

Sansa stood behind a tree, her breath quickening and her heart pounding. She reached down for her weapon of choice and shaped it between her hands. She then quietly moved to the side of the tree, and raising her arm, she took aim at her target. Jon stood brooding in front the ancient weirwood when a ball of snow then hit him in the back of his head. Brushing the cold away from his neck and shoulders, he turned around with widening eyes. His gaze met hers. It was like the clouds cleared and the sun came out. One smile from her and he wanted nothing more than to keep her smiling, to make her happy.

He watched as she bent down, cupping snow in her gloves and forming another small ball. Unable to resist, he gathered snow in his own hands, and threw the ball, hitting her in the shoulder. He tossed another snowball. This time she ducked and it landed behind her. She then reached down, packed some snow between her hands and threw a ball, but he jumped aside and it landed on the ground.

“Is that the best you can do?” he taunted. The sunlight caught his eyes, making them shine with golden sparkles.

She hurled the next snowball straight at his face, catching him on the nose. She laughed at his stunned expression, and started running. For the next several minutes, they ran to and fro, laughing, throwing snow at each other, their faces and cloaks scattered with fresh snow. Suddenly her foot caught a rock hidden under the snow and humus upon the godswood floor, and she stumbled forward. Instinctively he reached out and wrapped his arms around her. They swayed before falling backward, and he cushioned their fall with his body. She then found herself lying on top of him, his body warm and firm under her.

He had tightly wrapped his arms around her, and for a moment she stopped breathing as the world became a blur – the crisp blue sky, the white godswood, the dark red leaves of the heart tree all melted into a kaleidoscope of colors. She slid up along his body until their mouths, their eyes were level. She held her breath, waiting, desperately wishing for their lips to touch. Her mind shut down. A flush crept up her neck. Nothing existed except for him and the fire that burned inside her, stronger with every beat of her heart.

Beneath her, he was no longer smiling, but tense and breathing hard. Their laughter had melted away, becoming replaced with desire. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and he stared as she licked her lips. His eyes were then pulled to the huge white weirwood looming over them. He imagined that it had his father’s face. He wanted to kiss her, but he couldn’t with his father watching. He was the blood of Winterfell, and like his father, he would never dishonor himself.

 _But didn’t Lord Eddard Stark father a bastard,_ a small voice inside him whispered. _Wasn’t that dishonorable? Where was the honor in breaking his marriage vows? And what about your mother, and his duty towards her? Was there honor in abandoning her, and then keeping her from you? He wouldn’t even tell you her name._

His head was full of confusion, of the conflicted choices between love, honor, and duty. But what of Sansa? She was the daughter of Winterfell, and since she’d left the safety of its walls as a young girl, betrothed to that monster Joffrey Baratheon, men had done nothing but use her for their own selfish gains. She’d suffered horrors, her innocence cruelly broken. If he wasn’t careful, he would only end up causing her more suffering. She deserved long life, love, protection, and she deserved the same for her children, the future heirs of Winterfell. His love would only dishonor her, risking her protection and possibly even her life. Their children would be bastards born from lust and lies, scorned and held in contempt. He would never father a bastard.

Unwelcome feelings had stirred, like a burning fire in his veins. Yet somehow, he found his wits, knowing he could never harm her in such a way. He then gently slid her away from him and got up off the ground. Jon then held out a hand to help her up. Sansa placed her hand in his, which felt natural, and made her stomach flutter with a pleasant nervousness, and tugged at those same unwelcome feelings. He yanked her to stand, and her face lit with a smile. He smiled in return, yet his eyes were sad. Sighing, she slipped her hand into his and laid her head on his shoulder. There was suddenly the sound of a throat clearing behind them. Stiffening, they jumped apart, quickly turning to face the direction of the sound.

Bronn stood there. “Uh, Your Grace, Lady Stark…” He bowed his head, and then glanced between them, his brows furrowing. “Lord Petyr Baelish has arrived at the castle and has finally brought some news for us.”

Jon’s eyes widened slightly. “Us?”

“I think we’re finally going to be traveling south, thank the fucking gods,” he replied. “Why do you think I’ve stayed a month in Winterfell? For the pleasure of it? It’s bloody cold up here. I can’t wait until we’re off for the Riverlands.”

“The Riverlands?” she asked, turning a surprised face on her half-brother.

Bronn nodded. “Aye, I think that’s where we’re all supposed to be heading. I’m sure Baelish will explain everything, my lady.”

Jon and Sansa were stunned as they watched him walk away, not only by what he said, but also to learn that his trip to the north had more reasons behind it than simply to relay a message from Jaime Lannister. As they made their way out of the godswood, they each wondered what Littlefinger had been doing in his absence, but as they stared at the back of Bronn’s head with knotting stomachs, they started to wonder just how much he had seen before he’d announced his presence.


	12. Summer Friends And Winter Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mully added his two groats. 'My old grandmother always used to say, Summer friends will melt away like summer snows, but winter friends are friends forever.'" ~ A Dance With Dragons, Jon XIII

The Great Hall was awash with noise. The eight long rows of trestle tables, four to each side of the central aisle, were full to capacity. Two hundred northerners filled the benches, speaking loudly to each other and also to their king, who was seated at the table in the front of the hall next to the Lady of Winterfell. There was open disagreement among them.

Jon stood up from his chair. “My lords, my friends… please at least listen to what Lord Baelish has to say.”

“The North will never bend the knee to the Iron Throne again!” Lord Glover shouted.

“And we will never bend the knee to a Targaryen,” added Lord Cerwyn. “Fuck that foreign bitch and her dragons!”

Sighing, Jon glanced down at Sansa beside him. She gave him an encouraging smile. He then addressed them again. “Daenerys Targaryen has not told us to bend the knee. She’s made no requests or demands of us at all. Lord Baelish has only stated there’s to be a meeting with representatives from the Seven Kingdoms, at a chosen place that’s as neutral as possible, at least for Westeros. The Riverlands are in a central location, easily accessible from most regions.”

Lord Manderly stood up and spoke, his voice laced with anger. “How can you call the Twins a neutral location, Your Grace? Have you forgotten the Red Wedding?”

“I will never forget the Red Wedding,” said Jon. “Not until my dying day. But House Frey is no more. Walder Frey and his sons paid for their crimes against our families, against the North. The Boltons are no more. The Red Wedding has been avenged.”

“They were in league with the Lannisters!” shouted Lord Karstark, standing up from his seat. “This could be another Lannister trap. Cersei seeks to destroy House Stark and our independence!”

Lord Baelish stood up from his chair at the front table. “Queen Cersei will not be there. She has not been invited, and in fact, we’ve done all that we can to ensure she remains ignorant of the meeting at all. Jaime Lannister will represent the Kingdom of the Rock. He has broken ties with his sister and does not support her rule. He’s sworn an oath to House Stark, and means to keep it. Lords of the Seven Kingdoms are gathering together to talk of strategy, and to petition for peace.”

Many of the bannermen present scoffed at his words in disbelief, and the hall erupted in noise again.

“We will not survive a war against the Others if we’re too consumed with fighting petty wars amongst ourselves,” Jon told them, raising his voice above the din. “The southern kingdoms are obsessed with who sits the Iron Throne, and seeking revenge for old grudges and conflicts. They have yet to realize the true threat to Westeros, to recognize the real enemy. We have to make them see. When the White Walkers find a way to go south of the Wall, it will not matter who is in power. It will not matter if a Lannister is Lord of Casterly Rock, or if Cersei still remains inside the Red Keep. The Night King will not choose sides. We are all the same to him. Humanity is his enemy, and he’s coming for us all. We don’t stand a chance at surviving unless we find a way to fight together.”

“How do you know that this Daenerys Targaryen isn’t just drawing everyone to one place so she can destroy you all with her dragons?” asked Lady Lyanna Mormont curiously.

Jon sighed, and looked at Littlefinger as he sat back down in his chair. “It’s a fair question, Lord Baelish.”

The Lord Protector of the Vale nodded, turning a patient smile on those gathered in the hall. “For the same reason she hasn’t flown her dragons to King’s Landing and ousted Cersei Lannister by force. She wants to rule over the people of Westeros, she doesn’t want to burn them. I have met her. Daenerys Targaryen is _not_ like her father, Mad King Aerys. She’s not a tyrant. She wishes to do good for the people of the Seven Kingdoms. There could be no better person for the Iron Throne, and you all may need her help before the end. Or have you all found an abundant supply of dragonglass and Valyrian steel in these past few months? Have you found a method for bringing down thousands of wights? To prevent your own fallen dead from rising and joining their ranks?”

Sansa, sitting on the other side of Jon, slowly turned her head until her eyes locked on Littlefinger. Her stomach was starting to twist into knots. Something warned her, some inner wisdom urged her to distrust the outward sincerity in his words. She knew he wanted the throne for himself, and now started to wonder at the real reason for this meeting in the Riverlands, at what deals Littlefinger had arranged, or planned to arrange.

The hall had quieted as everyone mulled over Littlefinger’s words. The mood in the air started to change, those present coming to a begrudging acceptance of their precarious situation. In the end, it was agreed upon that five hundred Stark bannermen would ride with Jon to the Neck and encamp south of Moat Cailin near the North’s border with the Riverlands. Then a smaller company would travel with him to the Twins.

*****

Later that afternoon, Sansa stood up on the Winterfell battlements, overlooking the snow-covered land. A storm of conflicting emotions had welled up inside her with the return of Littlefinger to the castle, anger competing with something much more disturbing – a mixture of excitement, dread, and distrust. What exactly had he been doing while he’d been away? What was he hoping to gain by promoting these ‘peace talks’ between the Seven Kingdoms? When had he promoted anything other than his own selfish interests? And what of her? What had he planned for her? How was he going to achieve that pretty picture of him sitting on the Iron Throne with her by his side? She believed he’d be willing to do anything to make it happen. He would deceive anyone, he would abandon any cause, and he would forsake any oath.

“Lady Stark.”

She stiffened, the hair on the back of her neck tingling at the sound of his voice, smooth like silk, yet with a menacing undertone. Sansa turned and saw Littlefinger standing there in a cloak of black and white, fastened with his silver mockingbird pin. “Lord Baelish.”

They stared at each other for a moment. “You’re looking well,” he said, fixing her with a penetrating gaze. “You seem much happier and more content than when I had left. No doubt you have many reasons to be joyful now that you are safe at home with your _half-brother_.”

“What are you up to?” Her voice was cold. Her stomach tightened nervously at the look he was giving her, and she wondered if he really had left spies behind in the castle. “Peace between the Seven Kingdoms?” she asked, her voice laden with as much sarcasm as she could muster. “Supporting the benevolent rule of Daenerys Targaryen, the savior from some prophecy? Who are you planning on selling me off to this time?”

Baelish walked closer to her, and she tensed as if bracing herself. “I will forever regret giving you away to the Boltons. I have never wished you harm. I have only wanted to protect you and I thought sending you to Winterfell would be the best place for you, would give you the best opportunity for reclaiming the North. I never imagined the horrors that would befall you. I never wanted any of that to happen. I wish it had never happened. I wish I could go back, and make a different choice.”

Sansa averted her eyes from his, looking away. Again, conflicting emotions rose up inside her. The thought of Ramsay Bolton still sickened her and what she’d suffered at his hands she wouldn’t wish upon anyone. But she did have Winterfell back, and Jon, and they took back the North from the hands of their enemies. The painful road she’d taken had led her to where she was, and it was hard to regret her life now.

“You don’t trust me, I know,” Baelish continued. “But please give me the chance to earn your trust. I did love your mother. I would have done anything for her. She was everything to me. You are her daughter, and you meant everything to her. Allowing harm to befall you shames her memory and the love I had for her. Everything that I’ve done since that summer’s day when you first arrived in King’s Landing has only ever been for your welfare. I have only ever been your true friend, and I regret any choices I’ve made that made you suffer. It was never my intention. Everything that I do is for you.”

Her eyes pricked with hot tears. “Everything you do is for yourself,” she said bitterly.

He shook his head, his hands going to her arms, holding her in a firm yet gentle grip. “I will protect you. I can make you happy, if you just let me try.”

“I don’t need your protection. I am the Lady of Winterfell. My brother is King in the North.” She paused, swallowing, and looked away from him. “I don’t need you to make me happy.”

“Yes… _your brother_ ,” he replied, his eyes narrowing. “Does _he_ make you happy?”

Sansa’s widening eyes flew back to Littlefinger’s. They stared at each other until they heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Step away from Lady Sansa.”

They turned and saw Brienne standing there, her hand gripping the hilt of her Valyrian steel sword. While Sansa felt a flood of relief, anger and annoyance flooded Littlefinger’s gut like molten silver.

*****

She knocked on his bedchambers’ door. She heard him moving about inside and then stepping closer to the door, before placing his hand on the latch.

“Yes?”

“It’s me.”

Silence.

“What is it, Sansa?”

“I need to talk to you,” she whispered.

Silence.

“Can we talk in the morning?”

“I’ll never get any sleep if we don’t talk now. Please, Jon.”

After another long pause, he turned the latch and opened the door, light from inside spilling out across the threshold. She stood there in the same plain, blue-grey wool dress she’d been wearing earlier, holding a candle. Her eyes traveled from his face to his bare feet, taking in his loosened tunic and laced-up black wool breeches, his sleeveless leather jerkin and heavy cloak having been discarded.

She licked her lips. “Are you going to let me inside?”

He swallowed, hesitating. “Um…”

Sansa let out an exasperated sigh and pushed past him into his chamber. “Close the door,” she commanded over her shoulder as she set her candle down on his desk.

Jon shook his head, sighing as he shut his chamber door. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

She noticed that he stayed on the other side of the room, his back against the door, his arms crossing in front of his chest defensively. She didn’t know whether he was protecting himself from her presence, or the other way around. The sight made her feel miserable. “When will we leave for the Riverlands?”

 _“We?”_ he replied, raising his eyebrows at her. “ _You’re_ not going anywhere. You’re staying here in Winterfell.”

She balked. “You can’t go down there by yourself!”

He stared at her. “I’m not going alone. I’ll have my bannermen with me.”

“Jon, listen to me,” she implored. “You don’t know those people.”

“I trust my men, Sansa,” he replied testily.  

She took a determined step forward. “I’m not talking about men of the North! You’ve spent your life in Winterfell and at the Wall. You’ve never been south of the Neck. People like Littlefinger and the Lannisters, and other political schemers… you _don’t_ know them. You don’t know how they think. You don’t know the games they play.”

He sighed, closing his eyes. She was right, as usual. _You know nothing, Jon Snow._

“Their pretty words of promises and alliances are filled with poison. You don’t know who you’re dealing with. Littlefinger will betray you.”

“I don’t doubt that he will try.”

She moved closer, her eyes pleading with him. “You can’t go without me.”

He gazed at the floor, his resolve weakening. “But… there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. You… you can’t leave.”

“Old Nan once told me that a true friend is one soul dwelling in two bodies,” she whispered. “We are soul mates, you and I. There is an invisible cord connecting our hearts. We can never be separated.”

His eyes met her steady gaze, his heart pounding. How he wished that to be true, but dreaded the inevitable separation that lay in front of them in the unknown future.

“Don’t leave me behind when you depart for the Riverlands,” she entreated. “You need me, Jon.”

“Aye, I do need you,” he replied sadly, tearing his eyes from hers.

Sansa slid her hand into his, entwining their fingers. “And I need you.”

Jon stared down at their hands, at their fingers playfully threading together, his thumb gently caressing her palm. He needed her. She needed him. And the North needed them. They felt pulled in different directions, struggling between honor, duty, and the moral conflict in their hearts.


	13. Family, Duty, Honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'Family, Duty, Honor,' she recited stiffly. He did know her too well." ~ A Game of Thrones, Catelyn IV

Jon bid farewell to Tormund, who promised to look after Winterfell in his stead while he was away. The free folk vowed to protect its walls until their king’s return. Sansa watched as Brienne, Davos, and Bronn approached their horses while Littlefinger climbed into his carriage. A large group of Stark bannermen from every noble house in the North as well as some wildlings worked at getting their horses saddled and bridled, including the king’s most faithful guards, Bill Liddle, Luke Norrey, and Owen Wull.

As the company mounted their steeds and prepared to depart, servants and vassals filled their saddlebags with supplies of nuts and dried meats. Jon and Sansa had stored as much as they could in the satchels that flanked their own horses. It was almost 700 miles to the Riverlands, close to a two month journey. The East Gate lifted and the drawbridge lowered, spanning across the frozen moat, offering access to the world beyond Winterfell. They then passed through the castle’s gateway and made for the kingsroad.

The travelers rode south, passing through Cerwyn, and after eight days had arrived in the Barrowlands. They rode each day from dawn until late into the night, often singing songs about the old Kings of Winter or telling humorous stories as they passed the snow-covered barrows, ancient graves of the First Men. Upon arrival in the Barrowlands, Lady Barbrey Dustin sent a group from Barrowton to bring them fresh supplies while they camped for a brief rest.

The sun began to set when Jon and Sansa and the others bid the Dustins goodbye, thanking them for their hospitality and protection. As the travelers turned to go, the Dustins joined together in a song. Jon immediately recognized it as a song he’d heard north of the Wall when among the wildlings. It told the tale of the Long Night and the last hero slaying the Others with a blade of dragonsteel. It was a song of blessing and hope for deliverance. The Dustins continued to sing as Jon led the company south. He listened for as long as he could, feeling comforted by the song, until their voices were just another distant thrum in the night.

The travelers continued south on the kingsroad, riding long into the night, through the extensive hilly plains that stretched between Winterfell and Moat Cailin. Once they were enveloped by the peaceful hills blanketed by snow, no stray sound would reveal the company’s presence, as though the winter night covered over everything in its dreamy quiet. The eyes of the guards as well as Brienne, Davos, and Bronn frequently drifted to the front of their party. Sansa held close to Jon, sometimes arguing in fervent whispers, but mostly just speaking in hushed tones. Whatever their discussion was about, it went on for days, and never seemed to come to any resolution.

After three weeks of riding, they were almost out of the Barrowlands, and would soon arrive at the Neck. When the sun began to set, they stopped to make camp off to the side of the kingsroad. Torches were lit outside Jon’s tent, and as he walked towards it he passed a young wildling man, Raymun, who stiffened as he approached, eyes immediately dropping to the ground.

Some moments of tense silence passed, and then Jon spoke to the lad. “Are you afraid of me?”

The young man didn’t reply right away, but a moment later he raised his head slightly. “Yes, I fear you,” said Raymun, his voice tired.

“Do you think I will harm you?”

“You would never hurt me,” Raymun replied simply. “Tormund Giantsbane says you are the king who will lead us through the Long Night, the last hero reborn. The hope of the free folk rests on you. That is why I fear you.”

Jon shook his head. “I’m not what you think I am. I’m just not…”

Raymun nodded, giving a slight smile. “Tormund said you’d deny it. Whatever your word is, Lord.” He bowed his head and then started to walk away to his tent.

“Please don’t hope in me,” Jon whispered. But Raymun didn’t hear him.

“Who else are they going to put faith in?” asked Sansa, who had walked up behind him. “Do you know anyone else who has died and then come back to life?”

He turned, surprised to find her standing there, not having heard her approach. “Not you, too.”

Smiling, she linked their elbows and turned him towards his own tent. “Maybe that prophecy isn’t about Daenerys Targaryen at all.”

“You’re starting to sound like the Red Woman, Sansa,” he grumbled as he pushed aside the door to his tent. “How can I be the prince that was promised? I’m a bastard. Bastards are not heroes. They’re certainly not princes.”

“And yet look at all you’ve done,” she said, removing her arm from his. “You’re already a hero… to some people.”

He gazed at her, his expression bore a twinkling smile.

She tilted her head in the direction that Raymun had walked off, and smiled. “Including the wildlings.” She sighed. “We’re almost to the Neck. It’ll take twelve days to pass through it on the kingsroad, not counting on how long you plan on camping at Moat Cailin.”

“Well, I’d like to speak to the crannogmen. And maybe get a message to Howland Reed that we’ll be passing through their lands and to attack any armies invading from the south, if this gathering goes to shit.”

“No one has seen Lord Reed for many a year,” she said. “We’ve never even met him. We can only hope that he’ll be as loyal to us as he was to Father. The Neck is the key to the kingdom. House Reed’s alliance with House Stark is the North’s best protection, at least against the south.”

Jon hesitated, averting his eyes from hers. “Speaking of alliances and protection…”

Sansa’s face hardened. “I don’t want to talk about that. I’ve already said everything I had to say.”

“But things might be asked of us, and duty may require that we set aside personal feelings for the good of the North,” he replied with a sigh. “We should at least prepare ourselves for the likely chance…”

“Duty,” she whispered, frowning. She remembered the words of her mother’s house. And then Littlefinger’s words came back to her, from a conversation about her mother that they’d had when on the ship that sailed her away from King’s Landing. _Family,_   _Duty_ _, Honor, Sansa. Family, Duty, Honor meant I could never have her hand. But she gave me something finer, a gift a woman can give but once_ , he’d said to her.

He reached for her hand, holding her palm inside his. “We all do our duty when there is no personal cost to it, when there are no sacrifices to make. It’s easy then, to walk the path of honor. But there always comes a day when it’s not easy, when we have to make hard choices.”

She watched his face, his expression saddening. “What was her name?” she asked quietly.

“Ygritte.”

“So that’s who they were telling me about, the wildlings.” She had been hesitant to ask him about her before, as the free folk who spoke of her implied some tragedy had befallen her and that he’d been involved somehow. “What happened?”

He sighed. “I chose honor, and duty. And I sacrificed… her.”

She gazed at him. “Do you regret that choice now? If you could go back, would you again sacrifice for the sake of your duty and honor?”

Jon’s eyes met hers, and they held. Even men of honor wondered where their duty truly lies. He knew what she was getting at. There was a time when all his vows and his honor had been forgotten. Why else would he have forsaken all his honor, except for love? But in the end, he’d done his duty. And she’d died for it. He could make a different choice now. He could someday hold a newborn son in his arms, born to him from a woman he truly loved, and who loved him the same. A son was something he had never allowed himself to dream about. He never thought fatherhood was in his future. He could have his sister, and Winterfell, and their children could take his lord father’s name. He wanted it. He wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything. It was a ferocious hunger inside him, burning through his veins like wildfire.

But what of his honor? His duty? Letting go of her hand, he turned to enter his tent. “Goodnight, Sansa.”


	14. Different Roads Lead To The Same Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Suddenly she looked like she was going to cry. 'I wish you were coming with us.'
> 
> 'Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle. Who knows?'" ~ A Game of Thrones, Jon II

One month after departing Winterfell, the company of Stark bannermen left the snowy plains of the Barrowlands, and the air became thick with mist while the ground under their horses’ hooves became soft, wet mud. They’d finally reached the swampy bog of the Neck. They rode past villages formed of reeds and thatch, which had been built on crannogs, man-made islands floating in the mire. They saw smoky peat fires, lines of horses, and wagons carrying supplies of bread and dried meats.

At times they’d spot one of the reclusive crannogmen, short in stature, who would stare suspiciously until making out the sigil on the banners flying in the wind above Jon Snow’s head. At the sight of the Stark direwolf, the men would lower their faces. But none spoke, nor made any movements to approach the travelers, and would then quickly disappear. Sometimes they disappeared so quickly, those in the company doubted whether they had really seen them at all.

Beyond the mists, Jon and Sansa finally caught sight of the walls and towers that made up the formidable ruins of Moat Cailin. Scattered and half-sunk in the boggy soil of the swamp, stood the immense stones of black basalt that had once been a wall that stood as high as Winterfell’s. Although once a great stronghold of the First Men, only three towers remained where, according to the old stories, there had once been twenty, and they were covered with green moss. All was quiet as they approached the ancient stronghold, but Jon knew that at least two hundred archers manned those towers.

“This place is a death trap,” remarked Bronn.

“Only to southron armies, and enemies of the North,” Sansa replied. “The bogs here are impassable, waist-deep black muck full of sinkholes and quicksand, and teeming with snakes and lizard-lions. An advancing army would be forced to take the causeway between the towers, leaving them exposed to the crannogmen’s poisoned arrows. And when the sun sets and the sky darkens, vengeful ghosts emerge, hungry for the blood of southron men.”

Bronn looked about the landscape, appearing uneasy. “Well, this southron man doesn’t particularly care to provide an easy meal for swamp ghosts. Let’s not stay here long, eh?”

Davos, Brienne, and Podrick also exchanged strange looks as they sat on their horses. Sansa turned a teasing smile on Jon, and he grinned. She then heaved a sigh. At least twelve days of slowly following along the narrow causeway through an endless black mire lay in front of them. “I hate traveling through the Neck.”

As they drew closer to Moat Cailin, they saw sigils had been raised above all three towers. House Reed’s coat of arms, a black lizard-lion on a grey-green field, hung beneath the direwolf on both the Drunkard’s Tower and the Children’s Tower. But on the Gatehouse Tower, the one which looked to be in the most stable condition, only the Stark banner had been raised.

“I suppose that means Howland Reed got the raven I sent,” Jon said. “I’m glad we’re expected, and we haven’t come upon them by surprise.”

The company then made for the Gatehouse Tower, their horses slowly maneuvering down the road of logs and planks that had been laid across the muddy black and green fields by the crannogmen. After making camp, Jon and Sansa spent the evening in a drafty great hall, sitting near a peat fire smoking in a black stone hearth with Davos, Brienne, Podrick, Bronn, and Littlefinger. Bannermen and guards moved in and out of the room, sometimes sitting at the massive stone table in the center of the hall, talking and eating.

To their disappointment, no one from House Reed had been at the stronghold to greet Jon and Sansa. Although they were heartily welcomed by families of other crannogmen, like House Fenn and House Blackmyre, they had hoped to convene with Howland Reed. But it wasn’t to be. They were told that Lord Reed rarely ever set foot outside his castle, which was somewhere deep in the swamp of the Neck, over 150 miles south of Moat Cailin, west of the kingsroad, and impossible to find by anyone who didn’t have crannogmen to guide them.

Bedchambers for the night had been prepared on one of the upper floors of the tower for Jon and Sansa, while the others took up temporary residence on the second floor. As the fire in the hearth started to die out, they made their way up the stone steps to the fourth floor, fatigued from their long journey, Ghost following behind them. After they passed the landing to the second floor, feeling assured their traveling companions had all gone to sleep inside their own chambers, their hands then clasped together, fingers threading. They soon reached Sansa’s chamber door, a torch having been lit on the wall beside it to shed some light on the long dim hallway. At the other end, another torch had also been lit outside the chamber door where Jon would be sleeping.  

They stood quietly outside her chamber, not speaking. He had yet to let go of her hand. Her whole body tingled as he played with her fingers, threading and unthreading their hands in a continuous lazy exploration. She gazed down at their hands, at their fingers playfully entwining, and it suddenly made her think of nude bodies rolling together and coming apart, bending and turning, until she could barely stand still. Her heart pounded in her chest and some place deep in the pit of her stomach tightened fiercely. She wondered if Jon knew what he was doing to her. Glancing at his face, his eyes still locked on their hands, she decided that he didn’t. Of course he didn’t know.

She then took his hand in both of hers, clasping their palms together and trailing the fingers of her other hand over the back of his. She caressed his skin, satisfaction flowing through her at the freedom of touching him, as she wanted to, there in a dimly lit hallway far from Winterfell. When she had learned the texture of his hand and wrist, she explored the spaces between his fingers, her thumb caressing the hollow of his palm. She pressed her fingers to his wrist, and felt his blood beating like a drum beneath his skin.

Their eyes met, and they gazed at each other as their breathing quickened. “We ride for the Twins tomorrow,” he whispered, his gut twisted into nervous knots. Her fingers were still caressing along his hand and wrist.

Her mouth going dry, she swallowed, nodding. “Everything is going to change.”

“Change isn’t always a bad thing,” he said, giving her a slight smile. His mind was desperately shouting at him to walk away, cruelly reprimanding him, reminding him of every reason why he needed stop where this was heading. But his feet were planted and he could not move them.

A serious expression came over his face as Sansa leaned closer. She swallowed again, feeling time slow almost to a stop. She felt longing well up in her center, an ache for something that she guessed could quickly become unbearable. Her breath caught. Her heart felt like it was expanding in her chest, and she wanted to stay there forever, safe from the watchful eyes of those who would judge them and scorn their love.

“Jon, please…,” she said, her voice thick.

At her whispered entreaty, his mind went blank, his head filling with a heavy fog, and then he leaned in. Every part of her rejoiced when his lips met hers. His kiss was soft and gentle, yet it sparked a reaction she couldn’t control. Warm delight spread throughout her body, and her toes even curled inside her muddy boots. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and molded herself to him. His arms enveloped her, his hold on her tightening. Need twisted inside her. He loved the way she smelled, he loved the way she held him, he loved how her red hair brushed against his cheek, he loved the feel of her lips moving with his. He suddenly felt his body start to respond.

He pulled away abruptly, breathing hard, and stepped back, eyes widening. They stared at one another, feeling dazed. Their hearts were racing, their faces were hot. She felt giddy with happiness, as if she were floating. But then his face fell. Guilt rose up inside him like bile. He bowed his head, closing his eyes. “Oh, gods help us,” he breathed.

Jon then turned around without another word and walked down to the other end of the hall, Sansa helplessly staring after him. As he lay awake that night, staring up at the ceiling in anguish, he listened to her faint sobs as she cried herself to sleep.

*****

As the company rode down the narrow causeway of the kingsroad in the Neck, through the black bogs and air heavy with mist, Jon started to grow more apprehensive the closer they got to the Riverlands. He kept his fears hidden behind a stoic mask, but inside a storm of anxiety raged. White ravens constantly flew overhead. He wondered who was communicating, and why. He worried he was sending his friends and bannermen to their deaths by going to the Riverlands. He worried of the danger he was putting Sansa in. What did he know of schemers, and men who trade in secrets and lies? How could he tell a false tongue from a true one? _You know nothing, Jon Snow._

It didn’t help that their journey through the Neck was miserable. The air was so damp, they were wet and freezing by the end of the day. The causeway was so narrow it was impossible to set up a proper camp at night, and they were forced to sleep right on the road. He spent his nights too restless for sleep, and his days too anxious to converse much with his companions. He also had no idea what to say to Sansa, and felt like a fool.

The more Jon kept silent, the more depressed she seemed to become. They hadn’t spoken of what had occurred between them the night they spent at Moat Cailin. She wished she were free to bring up the topic, and she reproached her own heart as though it had been a traitor. She loved him, and he loved her. There was no reason for it, no answer, and no explanation. There was no how, or why. It just was. It had caught them unawares, disarmed and subdued them, and now a chain of bondage linked their hearts. They could neither break their fetters in order to separate, nor understand how they could possibly free their mutual love from its restraints. And there was no solution, no hope for one whatsoever.

Brienne had picked twenty men, including Podrick, with twenty swift horses to run ahead and scout their way into the Riverlands. Once they got close to the southern marshes of the Neck, they knew the Green Fork of the Trident wasn’t far. The headwaters of the river lay west of the kingsroad, running almost parallel, and Sansa pointed out to Jon that Greywater Watch, home to Howland Reed, lay somewhere in the swamps on an eastern headwater.

Soon Brienne and the small host returned, and the company of one hundred travelers then left the kingsroad, riding to the Green Fork, and following it southwest to the Crossing. It was midday when they caught sight of the Twins, a fortified crossing that consisted of two identical castles and a tower in the middle of their connecting bridge, a massive arch of grey stone. The Water Tower looked out over the river and the road, equipped with arrow slits and portcullises for defending the castles. There were high curtain walls, gates of oak and iron, and deep moats. The former seat of House Frey was one of the most formidable strongholds in Westeros. At one glance, Jon knew the Twins could never be taken by force, and only a damn fool would ever try.

Surrounding the Twins on either side of the river were camps flying different banners – the Tully sigil of a leaping silver trout on a field of blue and red mud, the Arryn sigil of a sky-blue falcon soaring against a white moon, the Greyjoy sigil of a golden kraken on a black field, the Tyrell sigil of a golden rose on a green field, the Martell sigil of a gold spear piercing a red sun on an orange field, and the Lannister sigil of a gold lion on a crimson field. Much to the company’s shock, there was also a small camp flying the sigil of a black crowned stag on a gold field. They had thought House Baratheon was no more, yet apparently an heir had been found. But the sigil of House Frey was nowhere to be seen, and no one in the Seven Kingdoms was mourning that fact.

Those outside in the camps stopped what they were doing and stared as the company of House Stark approached the Crossing, their direwolf banners dancing in the wind. They neared the small camp belonging to House Baratheon. Emerging from a large tent was a man about the same age as Robb would’ve been, tall and well-muscled, with a head of thick black hair, and a girl no older than fourteen or fifteen years, with hair that hung like dark curtains to her shoulders. Following after them was a direwolf with grey fur and yellow eyes.

Ghost howled, and then Jon halted, pulling on the reins, and stared agape. The girl froze at the sound and her mouth fell open. She had a slightly horsey face, like his. And she had dark eyes, like his. She was also wearing boy’s clothing – dark grey wool breeches, a white linen tunic, and a brown doeskin jerkin dotted with iron studs. In her left hand, she held a sword with a skinny steel blade that had a deep blue sheen.

“Sansa!”

“Oh, gods…”

The girl started running towards them. They couldn’t believe their eyes.


	15. Vengeance, Justice, Fire And Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He has gone to bring us back our heart's desire. Vengeance. Justice. Fire and blood." ~ The Winds of Winter; Arianne I

He strode up to the tent at the front of a camp near the river bank outside the east castle, but came to a stop several feet away, hesitating. The tent was large, but there was nothing very grand about it. It was made of plain heavy canvas, like a standard soldier’s tent, and dyed grey. Only the direwolf banner that streamed atop the center pole marked it as anything special. That, and the two guards standing outside the entrance flap; hardened northern men leaning on tall spears, with a badge of the direwolf sigil sewn over their hearts. Nothing more was needed to announce that this tent belonged to a king.

Jon and Sansa sat at the table in the middle of the pavilion, staring, speechless. It was hard to believe the tale they’d just been told, of the events that had happened to this girl over the past few years, and yet they knew it all had to be true. They didn’t know what to say in response. It was hard to imagine, not only the horrors she had seen and survived, but also what she herself had done.

“But… Walder Frey and his sons were killed months ago,” said Jon. “Why didn’t you come home?”

Arya, sitting on the other side of the table, chewed her lower lip, and bounced her foot nervously. “I was going to. But Walder’s other sons and grandsons were still in the castles. He had so many, well over thirty. They’d only rise up as his heirs. So…”

“You made more pies?” Sansa guessed apprehensively, her brows creasing.

“No, they just ended up in the river,” she answered simply. “What would be the point in going through all that work if Walder was already dead and couldn’t eat them?”

Sansa and Jon stared. Arya shrugged, averting her eyes from theirs. “And Jaime Lannister was still here. He took over the Twins’ lordship. The Lannisters had still deserved vengeance for what they did. We deserved justice. But then he was gone, left for King’s Landing before I could do anything.” She looked up, meeting their concerned faces.

“But Jaime Lannister has broken with Cersei and claims to support our family now,” Sansa told her.

Arya sighed, frowning. “Yes, I know. Everyone knows.” Jon wondered if his sister felt disappointed at no longer having a reason to murder the man. She then shrugged. “I was going to come home after he left. Really. But the Brotherhood Without Banners showed up with the Hound and I couldn’t leave.” She didn’t seem keen to talk about them, quickly moving past that topic. “Nymeria showed up in the forest by the river. And then the Red Woman arrived with my friend, so I...”

“The Red Woman?” he replied, interrupting her. “Melisandre?”

“Yes, her. Gendry is Robert Baratheon’s bastard, and she keeps going on and on about ‘king’s blood,’” Arya sighed. “She won’t shut up about it.”

Jon looked at her in surprise. “She’s still here, at the Twins?”

She nodded, rolling her eyes. “Yes. Melisandre is over in the House Baratheon camp, staring into a fire probably. Gendry hasn’t been legitimized or anything, but the people of Storm’s End are hoping that his story is proof enough and that the lords of the other Westeros Great Houses will allow him to take the Baratheon name.”

“And the Iron Throne?” asked Sansa, lifting an eyebrow.

“It belongs to Gendry more than Cersei,” she replied defiantly. “Even Father knew he was King Robert’s son, and that Cersei’s children were abominations. Knowing the truth got him killed.”

Jon and Sansa didn’t reply, and only nodded, averting their gaze from Arya’s. Knowing Robert Baratheon’s reputation, he most likely had had numerous bastards all over Westeros. They knew bastards were commonly held in contempt, and sneered at. Yet bastards were fathered all the time, and it was common enough in the North as well as in the southern kingdoms. But incest was considered an atrocious sin to both the old gods and the new. Whether one worshipped in godswood or sept, children born of such obscene wickedness were declared abominations, unnatural and monstrous. Only the Targaryens had commonly married brother and sister, but they had come from old Valyria where it was accepted. Despite the practice being condemned in Westeros, when possessing dragons one never had to answer to either men or the gods.

Before they could say anything more, the tent flap raised and Bill Liddle stepped inside. “Your Grace, Lady Stark…,” he turned and glanced at their younger sister, bowing. “Princess.”

Arya furrowed her brows, giving her brother and sister a strange look from across the table. They grinned at her. “Yes, Bill?” replied Jon, turning towards the guard.

“Ser Jaime Lannister is here and wishes to speak with you, my lord. To officially welcome you to the Twins.”

The siblings exchanged looks, and then Jon nodded. “All right. Send him in.”

Bill Liddle walked back outside, and a moment later the flap was rising over the golden head of the Kingslayer. He bowed before them, and paid his respects. Luke Norrey and Owen Wull stepped forward from the rear corners to stand beside the table where their king sat. The tent then grew silent, no one speaking. Jaime sighed, lowering his face from the Stark children’s steady gazes, but then raised his head to meet their eyes unabashedly.  

“Ser Bronn and Lady Brienne tell me that you read the letter I sent some months ago. And that same letter did indeed go out all over Westeros. I _have_ declared for House Stark. I once made a promise to Lady Catelyn, and I’ve tried to do my best to keep it. Honestly, the more I grew to admire her, the more I grew to despise myself, and my family. The Lannister name no longer has any real honor. I know I can never ask for forgiveness for my family’s deplorable crimes against yours. I cannot undo the past. I cannot bring back the lives of your parents, or your brothers. I can only seek to ensure that the future is more peaceful, and that Catelyn Stark’s remaining children are kept safe from harm.”

“Is anyone safe from harm anymore?” remarked Arya, crossing her arms against her chest.

Jaime gave her a slight smile, and seemed impressed by her response. “Only the dead, my lady.” He then looked at her older brother. “I’ve had the lord’s chambers prepared for you in the east castle. I would be honored to shelter you and your sisters under the Twins’ roof as well as any lords bannermen who may have travelled with you to the Riverlands. Your trusted guards will also be welcome to accompany you inside the castle.”

Jon nodded slowly, considering his offer. “Don’t the lord’s chambers belong to you, Ser Jaime?”

“No, Your Grace. I’ve been using the guest chambers in the Water Tower. The Twins do not truly belong to me, and I expect soon a decision will be made about which of the river lords will take command of it. Daenerys Targaryen has yet to arrive, and the lord’s chambers have been prepared for her across the bridge in the west castle. I don’t know how long this, well, I don’t know what this is – I suppose the Ironborn would call it a kingsmoot – but I don’t know how long we’ll all be here. The castle will provide a much more comfortable place for you than a tent.”

Sansa furrowed her brows. “A kingsmoot?”

“Cersei’s rule has been rejected,” Jaime explained. “Plans must be made to remove her from power, and so the noble houses of Westeros must decide who will sit upon the Iron Throne. But I don’t imagine this is a decision that will be easily agreed upon. It could be some time before we’re all able to return home.”

 “Time is something we don’t have,” Jon said, his voice full of determination. “I’m not concerned with the Iron Throne. There are more pressing matters that will need to be discussed.”

Jaime sighed, nodding. “Even so, my lord, I’m sure a hot bath and a soft bed will do you all some good. Winterfell is very far from here, and you’ve come a long way.”

Sansa eyes met Jon’s. They each looked worse for wear, after weeks of traveling through the black bog of the Neck and the rainy Riverlands. She gave him an encouraging smile and he nodded, Arya quietly watching them come to an unspoken agreement.

“All right, we accept your offer,” Jon said, standing up from the table.

“I am fully aware of what happened the last time the Starks were here at the Crossing. And I know that my father was partially responsible for the tragedy that befell your brother and your mother and your loyal bannermen. There is nothing I can do to take back what happened. But I can promise you that no harm will befall you now while I have control of the Twins.” He glanced at Arya Stark, and grinned, remembering her earlier words. “Well, I can at least promise you that no harm will come to you by my hand.” Then after bowing and paying respects, Jaime Lannister walked out of the tent.

*****

As Jon, Sansa, Arya, and several Stark bannermen and guards approached the east castle, a sally port opened and a plank bridge slid across the deep moat formed by a channel having been cut from the river bank. Littlefinger had withdrawn from their company and joined the camp of House Arryn, no doubt meeting up with Lord Robin and the Knights of the Vale. But Davos, Brienne, and Podrick were with them, and the small group made their way across and into the castle. Jaime Lannister greeted them inside. Vassals belonging to the river lords then led the bannermen, Davos, Brienne, and Podrick to the third floor of the castle’s largest tower, where they were given comfortable quarters.

Jaime himself led the Starks and three of their guards up to the top of the same tower. “You’ll have the entire floor,” he said as they climbed the curving stone steps. “As befits a king and his ladies.”

They stepped onto the landing of the fifth floor. Jaime showed them the lord’s chamber, the bridal chamber directly across the hallway from it, two smaller bedchambers a bit further down, and then pointed out quarters at the other end of the hall that would serve for their guards. There was also a cramped narrow staircase down at that end, which was solely used by the castle’s servants.

“Would you like a handmaiden to stay with you in your chambers, Lady Stark?” Jaime asked.

Sansa briefly paused, thinking over his question. She had young maids who assisted her at home in Winterfell, and none had accompanied her on this journey south. But the idea of a Lannister offering her a handmaiden filled her with unwelcome memories of King’s Landing. She bristled at the thought. “No, ser. I do not need one.”

He nodded, smiling. “Well, just ring for one of the servants if there is anything you require.”

“We thank you for the hospitality, Ser Jaime,” replied Jon. Sansa and Arya echoed him. Jaime then bowed and withdrew, climbing back down the spiral stone steps.

As soon as they could no longer hear his footsteps, Arya spoke up. “I’m not sleeping in here. Gendry is out there in the Baratheon camp with that Red Woman. I don’t trust her. He needs me to be there with him, or he’ll probably do something stupid.”

Jon stared down at her. “That’s not happening. Us in here and you out there in the camps on your own? Who’s going to look after you?”

“I’ve been looking after myself for the past five years,” she balked. “And I’d say I’ve done a damn sight better than you. No one’s killed _me_ yet.”

“Funny,” he replied flatly.

She smirked. “And I won’t be on my own. I have Nymeria.” The grey direwolf sitting at her heels lifted its yellow eyes toward the sound of its name. Arya ran her right hand through the wolf’s fur atop its head. “And Gendry.”

He shook his head. “You need to be in here with us at night. We finally got you back, and we’re not going to lose you again.”

“I’m not leaving my friend out there!” she said heatedly. “And Nymeria can’t stay penned up in a castle, she’s half-wild as it is!”

“I don’t care! You’re staying with…”

Sansa placed a calming hand on his forearm, her fingers gently wrapping around him. “Jon, let her go.”

She stared at her hand, and at her brother’s demeanor relaxing at the touch. She then looked up at her sister’s face. “You’ll let me stay in the camp?” she asked, raising her eyebrows in surprise.

“Yes, Arya. You can do whatever you wish.”

“You mean you don’t want me in the castle, feasting in the great hall with all the lords and honored guests, dressing and acting like the proper highborn lady that I’m supposed to be?” she questioned, as if in disbelief. She then frowned. “No, I guess you wouldn’t. I’m better off unseen in the camps.”

Sansa laughed. “You’re fine just as you are. No one is going to make you put on a dress.”

Jon smiled, and then heaved a sigh. “All right, you don’t have to stay here. But you’ll sleep in the Stark camp with our people to guard you. You will sup in the evenings with us, in the great hall. And when it comes time for the houses to join together for this… meeting… you will be there with us, representing _House Stark_ and _the North_. Even if your good friend is a Baratheon. Understood?”

Tears started to fill her eyes as she glanced between her brother and sister. “You mean… you’re not ashamed of me? Of… of the things I’ve done? You… you still want me?”

“Oh, Arya…,” Sansa sighed.

Jon knelt down, his hands going to his sister’s shoulders, and he spoke quietly. “Listen to me. We’ve all done things we’re not proud of, all three of us here. We’ve all had to find ways to survive, even if that meant doing things we never would have done if the circumstances had been different. The three of us, and Bran wherever he is, we are all the blood of Winterfell and we belong together. Nothing will ever change that. _Nothing_.”

Arya’s arms went around her brother’s neck and she held onto him tightly, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. He held her gently and she closed her eyes, feeling almost as if the strong arms of her father were around her once again.

Soon after, Sansa stepped into the bridal chamber. It was large and handsomely furnished, dominated by a large featherbed with the four oak bedposts carved into the shapes of castle towers. Its draperies were grey trimmed with white, the Stark colors. She felt it was a nice courtesy, and unexpected coming from Jaime Lannister. The carpets that covered the plank floor were sweet-smelling, a tall shuttered window opened to the south, looking out over the green waters of the river, and there was a warm fire burning in the stone hearth.

It wasn’t long before maidservants were entering her chambers to fill her bath with scalding hot water brought up from the kitchen. They scented the bath with fragrant oils and helped her into the tub. She had not properly washed since they left Winterfell, and she was almost shocked by how dirty the water became. An old woman washed her long, red hair and gently combed out the tangles while a young girl scrubbed her back and her feet, all in silence. Sansa didn’t speak to them except to give polite requests. They were not Winterfell servants, and so she did not trust them.

Servants had also brought up the case filled with her clothing. When she emerged from the bath and dried off, she thanked and dismissed the maidservants. She then chose a simple dress with long sleeves, made of warm grey-green wool. It was a dress she had newly made, shortly before departing Winterfell, and she’d never worn it before. She stood in front of a beaten silver mirror on the wall, and she stared at her reflection. The green in the wool made her red braid stand out and brightened the blue of her eyes. She then looked at her chest, at the spot just over her heart. A fierce white direwolf was embroidered upon it. She ran her fingers over it and smiled, knowing Jon would like it, and then turned to leave the chamber.

When Sansa opened the door, she found Arya standing there, whose mouth fell open at the sight of her. “I thought you’d be out in the camps?”

“Oh, well… it’s almost time for supper, so I thought I’d come back and see you.” She gazed at Sansa, her eyes drifting from head to toe. “You look just like Mother.”

Smiling, she placed an arm around her sister’s shoulders. “Why don’t you show me around this castle? I assume you know all the secret spots.”

Arya grinned, nodding with wide, excited eyes. “There’s an old creaky door off an unused room in the kitchens that opens up fairly close to the river bank. It had been sealed shut so no one could access it, as it’s not protected by the gates or the moat, but I busted it open to get the Frey boys out without anyone seeing. If you’re a good jumper, you can land on the bank without your feet ever touching the water.”

She looked down at her new dress. “I don’t mind checking it out, but I’m not jumping anywhere. At least not before supper in the great hall.”

Laughing, she grabbed Sansa’s hand. “Let’s go exploring.”

*****

For the next five days, they dined in the east castle’s great hall, seated on the raised platform with Jaime Lannister and Edmure Tully, who had been freed from the dungeon by Jaime after Walder Frey was found dead and then safely returned home to Riverrun. The Lannister forces then gave up the castle to its rightful lord. Other high lords of the Riverlands as well as Littlefinger and Lord Robin Arryn also sat on the platform. Every night the hall was filled with Stark bannermen, those belonging to the river lords as well as House Lannister, and the Knights of the Vale. As King in the North, Jon was given the high seat, and Sansa was placed beside him, Arya always sitting on the other side of her sister.

Sansa felt thankful that those from the Greyjoy, Tyrell, and Dorne houses remained across the river in the west castle. The gathering would happen soon enough, as soon as Daenerys Targaryen arrived from Dragonstone, and she enjoyed having a few days of peace before the political whirlwind struck. While she had made peace with Theon, the Ironborn had invaded the North and many good northerners had been killed, heirs from noble houses. She knew that tensions between the Stark bannermen and the company from House Greyjoy would be rife.

She’d also heard talk through the camps that Theon and his sister Yara, the new Salt queen of the Iron Islands, supported Daenerys Targaryen’s right to rule Westeros and that she’d promised them their independence in return. Sansa hoped in her heart that the North would be left alone, that their independence wouldn’t be challenged, and that the other kingdoms would just decide for themselves who they wanted to sit on the Iron Throne. She hoped, but she hadn’t much faith that her hopes would come to fruition.

Jon was not only powerful, but he was respected and well-liked, even by southron people, judging by their reactions to him since they’d arrived at the Twins. She was the Lady of Winterfell, Ned Stark’s eldest trueborn daughter and heir. If the other kingdoms could use them in their quest for power, she had no doubt that they would try. Surprisingly, Littlefinger had mostly kept his distance. He greeted her and her siblings with courtesy and respect, but he hadn’t sought to get her alone nor had she heard him speak of any plans for her or the Vale. It was almost as if he was waiting for something, and the more he kept his distance, the more nervous she became.

In the morning on the sixth day after their arrival at the Crossing, after Jon and Sansa had breakfasted with Davos, Brienne, and Podrick, they walked out of the castle and made for the Stark camp. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and although the air was crisp, it was a welcome change following days of rain. After checking on Arya and their men, they walked east up the hill with three guards until the Twins disappeared from view and they came to the nearby apple orchard.

The sweet fragrance of the apples filled the air. “I like the smells here,” Jon told Sansa as they walked through the dew-fresh morning beneath the trees. Although their guards kept a respectful distance behind them, and the desire to reach for each other’s hands was strong, they didn’t dare. But their fingers occasionally brushed, sending a powerful surge through them, setting their hearts pounding.

Deep in the orchard, they listened silently for a while to insects and birds. They spoke quietly of Arya and all their sister had been through, of her concerns for her friend Gendry Waters and Melisandre. They spoke in serious, hushed tones of the upcoming gathering, and the difficult situations they could possibly find themselves in. Soon they had circled until they were back to the edge of the orchard where they had first entered. Jon and Sansa then heard a screeching fill the air around them, a foreign and strange sound.

Cautiously, they passed the last of the apple trees and walked back towards the hill’s crest, rising over it. The castles, river, and camps all instantly came into view. Men were rushing outside of their tents, pointing to the sky as horses were rearing and screaming, trying to run free. The screeching was heard again. Suddenly, three enormous dragons appeared in the sky above the Twins, their large black claws digging into the air, their great wings beating steadily, stony scales of jade green, white and gold, black and scarlet shimmering above the sparkling waters of the river below. They just as quickly disappeared from sight, flying somewhere beyond the west castle on the other side of the Green Fork. Eyes wide, Jon reached for Sansa’s hand, clasping her palm, threading their fingers.


	16. A Shadow On The Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Power resides where men believe it resides. It's a trick, a shadow on the wall." ~ Varys, Game of Thrones, S2E3

Dany assembled her council in a large chamber near the great hall in the west castle. Unsullied guards stood at the large oak doors, both inside and outside the room. The council discussed a few matters for several minutes, and then could discuss no more until they received further information. From the high seat at the long table, she glanced around at her Hand and the others as well as the empty chairs while they quietly waited. Moments later, the heavy oak doors opened, and in walked Olenna Tyrell of the Reach, Ellaria Sand of Dorne, Theon and Yara Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, and Petyr Baelish of the Vale.

They all spoke of Cersei Lannister and the events happening within King’s Landing. Discussion soon turned to the North and its newly-crowned king.

“Is he a threat?” Dany asked.

“The northerners are famously disinterested in life south of the Neck, Your Grace,” answered Tyrion. “House Stark rarely involves itself in business concerning the Iron Throne.” He paused, lifting his cup of wine. “Well, unless forced… unless their family is in danger. Nothing good ever comes from that. It would be best not to awaken the wolves.”

Yara scoffed. “The last Wolf who rose up was crushed.”

Baelish narrowed his eyes at her. “And was that easy? It required his own men betraying him.”

“Jon Snow is _not_ Robb Stark,” Tyrion said forcefully. “Robb Stark was a foolish boy who made unwise decisions that led to his own downfall. Jon Snow is a hardened warrior, battle-tested. And he’s earned the unswerving love and devotion of people who had once vowed to hate him. Plus, he’s some kind of walking miracle. No one is going to betray him.”

“Is it true that he was dead and then came back to life?” Dany asked.

Tyrion sighed, shrugging his shoulders.

Pursing his lips, Littlefinger nodded. “According to the numerous accounts of those who witnessed the events at Castle Black, yes. It’s true. And Melisandre of Asshai, who raised him up, is also here… with House Baratheon of Storm’s End.”

Dany’s eyes blazed. “With the Usurper’s camp. How can we have a red woman of R’hllor promising the people of Essos that I am their savior if a red woman of R’hllor here in Westeros is supporting the Usurper?”

“She doesn’t support the Usurper, Your Grace,” he replied, his mouth curving into a smirk. “She’s proclaimed for all to hear that Jon Snow is Azor Ahai reborn, the prince that was promised.”

Tyrion bowed his head, closing his eyes, and sighed. Dany glanced at him nervously, before speaking to Lord Baelish. “Do the people really believe this? Does Jon Snow believe it?”

He gave a slight tilt of his head from side to side, as if debating the answer. “It’s hard to tell, Your Grace.”

“Well, what do we do about Jon Snow?” Dany questioned, looking around at her council.

Varys cleared his throat. “Your Grace, may I suggest the simplest and most obvious solution. You are a queen without a king. Jon Snow is a king without a queen. You want House Stark to toe the line? Chain their house to you permanently.”

She visibly recoiled. “A Targaryen would never marry a Stark. And Jon Snow is a bastard.”

Baelish smirked, and pursed his lips, but said nothing.

“Perhaps the best way to bring about peace in the realm is to repair the damage done between your houses,” said Varys, throwing a suspicious glance at Littlefinger. “What happened between the Targaryens and Starks ripped the Seven Kingdoms apart. Maybe it’s time to make amends, Your Grace. You want to rule once Cersei is out, and forever silence even the very idea of a future rebellion against you? Get the North on your side.”

“But what about Ned Stark’s daughter?” asked Dany. “She is the heir of Winterfell. The North could break with the bastard and rally behind her.”

His eyes twinkling, Baelish leaned forward, his forearm going to rest on the table. “May I suggest a marriage pact with a house that swears loyalty to you? Her cousin is Lord Robin Arryn of the Vale, a natural alliance for Sansa Stark. As Lord Robin’s guardian and as Lord Protector of the Vale, I have counselled absolute loyalty to the Iron Throne once you are sitting upon it. With Jon Snow at your side and the North permanently allied with the Vale, the Seven Kingdoms will all belong to you, Your Grace.”

Varys and Tyrion stared at Littlefinger, and thought they saw something like triumph in his expression, and then they turned and looked pointedly at each other, eyes glinting in silent communication.

Sighing, clearly unhappy about the situation, Dany nodded. “All right. But you all just said that Jon Snow doesn’t care about the Iron Throne and who sits on it. Why would he agree to a marriage? Threatening him with my dragons might not work…”

“Your Grace,” spoke Olenna Tyrell. “I don’t think the threat of burning flesh is best the way to a man’s heart.”

Ellaria Sand chuckled. “But it might be the quickest.”

Varys shook his head. “Yes, but that doesn’t foster a healthy relationship or ensure a man’s loyalty.”

“I suppose I could just get him to fall in love with me,” Dany admitted.

Tyrion smiled, gazing at her. “Shouldn’t be too difficult for you.”

Although Yara Greyjoy smirked and chuckled, a silent Theon who sat beside her stared down at his fingers entwined over his lap, his brows creasing with worry, his guts twisting into anxious knots.

*****

Arya sat cross-legged on the edge of the large four-poster featherbed in Jon’s chambers, Ghost and Nymeria spread out on the bed behind her. He emerged from the room with the bath that flanked the bedchamber, pulling the linen tunic down over his head. She stared at the scars from the old stab wounds on his stomach and chest. He then started lacing up his dark grey wool breeches, tucking the tunic down inside. Damp black curls hung loose about his face. Their eyes met and she frowned.

“I hate staying in the castle all the time,” she complained. “Why can’t I go outside for a while?”

“Bloody hell, Arya. There are three dragons out there.”

She heaved a frustrated sigh, propping her chin up with her hand, her elbow resting on her knee. She watched him sit down in the wooden chair at the desk against the wall and then start to pull on his boots. “You haven’t changed that much, you know?”

Jon looked at her, smirking. “I haven’t?”

“Even the way you look,” she said. “You look the same, really. Except you got scars on your face.”

“Well, that’s what fighting will do to you,” he responded, lacing up a boot.

Arya pursed her lips, nodding. “Wanna see my belly? I got stabbed a bunch of times, too.”

He laughed. “I believe you.” He reached for the other boot. “What happened to the person who stabbed you?”

“I killed her with Needle and then peeled off her face,” she answered simply, a smile gracing her calm expression.

Jon froze for a moment, swallowing, and then finished lacing the boot without comment.

She watched him in silence as he crossed the room to the wardrobe and slipped on a sleeveless leather jerkin, like the ones her father used to wear. She then chewed her lip, thinking. “Sansa has changed a lot, though.”

“Aye, she has.”

“What happened to her?” Arya asked, sounding as though she wasn’t sure if she truly wanted to know.

He sighed. “Terrible things happened to her.”

She looked down at her lap, and played with her fingers. “I used to think she hated me.”

“Nah, she never hated you. She just… had a fiery disposition.” He laughed to himself as he crossed the room to stand in front of the mirror on the wall. “She still does.”

“Redheads,” she grumbled.

Jon smirked, licking his lips, but didn’t make a reply.

Arya watched him pull his dark hair back, like their father used to wear his. “She loves you.”

“Did she tell you that?” he asked, his stomach knotting nervously as he stared at his reflection.

“No. I can tell just by the way she looks at you. She never liked you much when we were children. At least she didn’t act like it. She never allowed me to call you my brother. She was always correcting me. _‘Half-brother, Arya. Jon is a bastard. He’s not like the rest of us.’_ ” She sighed. “It’s not like that anymore. I can see how much she loves you. But I guess you’re the only brother she’s got left… if Bran never comes home.”

Before Jon could respond, there was a knock. He walked over to his chambers door and opened it a crack.

Luke Norrey stood there. “Sorry for disturbing you, Your Grace. But… uh, there’s a woman here to see you. Her name is, uh…”

“Missandei,” spoke a smooth, accented voice somewhere behind Luke.

“Yes, her. Missandei. She serves Daenerys Targaryen and wishes to speak with you, my lord.”

Jon turned and looked at Arya, her brows rising in surprised excitement. He looked back at his guard. “All right. She can enter.”

A beautiful woman with golden brown skin then stepped into the room, wearing a gown of light blue silk that exposed her bare arms and shoulders, and her own guard attempted to follow. Norrey tried to stop him, but he was insistent. “I go where Missandei goes,” he said in a heavy accent.

“It’s all right, Luke. He can come in.”

The dark-skinned guard then followed her inside the chambers, clad in plain, unadorned armor made of black leather. Luke Norrey had managed to walk in before him and stand next to Jon.

“I am here on behalf of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Princess of Dragonstone, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons,” announced Missandei in a sweet, strong voice.

“Six kingdoms,” Arya quipped. “The North is independent.”

Slowly turning his head to stare at his sister, he gave her a pointed look of warning, before turning back to the messenger. He cleared his throat. “Uh, yes. And what does Daenerys Stormborn want with me?”

Missandei tore her blank expression from the young girl sitting on the bed twirling a skinny sword in her left hand and looked at the King in the North. “She wishes to meet you, before the council gathering of the Great Houses. She’s heard a lot about you and wants the time to speak with you personally, in a much less complicated situation than what will no doubt transpire in the great council meeting.”

Jon looked over at Arya. “I’ll go with you,” she told him, jumping off the bed, gripping Needle firmly in her palm. His eyes widened.

Twenty minutes later, there was another knock on the door to the lord’s chambers. It opened, and Sansa stood there in the blue dress with the grey direwolf embroidered across the chest, damp hair in a long red braid over her shoulder, smiling down at her sister. “Having fun with Jon?”

She frowned, crossing her arms against her chest. “He went over to meet the dragon queen and left me here. He said he'd see us in the hall for the welcoming feast.”

“What?” she replied, laughing in disbelief.

“Daenerys Stormborn!” Arya cried out dramatically, the back of her hand going to her brow as she raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Queen of Meereen! Queen of the Andals! Queen of Seven Kingdoms… no wait, six! Princess of Dragonstone! Khaleesi of some grassy sea! Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons!” She then fell backwards, collapsing as if she was performing on some stage in a play. Giggling, she sat up and stared at her sister.

Sansa swallowed, her face hardening, her stomach knotting fiercely. “Jon went to see Daenerys Targaryen?”

*****

Jon stepped out of the east castle, wearing the black cloak trimmed with fur that Sansa had made him before they left the Wall, Longclaw strapped to his side. He passed through the gate and walked along the bridge that crossed the green waters of the river, heading towards the castle on the opposite bank. Bill Liddle, Luke Norrey, and Owen Wull walked in front of and behind him. It wasn’t long before they’d reached the west castle’s bridge gate, rising to allow them entrance.

They were met inside by Missandei and her faithful guard, who then led them through the first floor of the castle and to the outer gate. The plank bridge then slid across the moat, allowing them access to the river bank. They walked past the Greyjoy, Tyrell, and Dorne camps, passed a line of soldiers holding shields and spears that looked almost identical to Missandei’s guard – same unadorned black leather, same shaved head.

They soon approached a forest, and they followed Missandei and her guard through the tree line. Jon’s guards grew nervous, and whispered caution.

“Queen Daenerys does not wish you any harm,” spoke her scribe as she walked in front of them.

It wasn’t long before they reached a large clearing and found three dragons lying on the grass, as if they were simply enjoying the sunshine and fresh air. Jon and his guards froze, staring at the huge beasts. Then a young woman appeared out from behind the biggest one, that had scales of red and black, and walked towards them. Missandei again announced the numerous titles that Daenerys Targaryen had acquired. The woman then politely dismissed her and the guard, who turned and walked away from the clearing.

Jon stared at this young woman, Daenerys Targaryen. She was short of stature and very beautiful, with long silver-blonde hair cascading down her back. There were flowers in her hair the shade of deep violet, which brightened the purple in her eyes. He thought she looked like Queen Naerys come to life from the pages of Sansa’s favorite book. She wore a grey linen gown with white pearls sewn into the bodice. He wondered if she’d chosen to wear the Stark colors on purpose. This woman was a schemer, he decided. Cunning and calculating.

“May we speak privately, Your Grace?” she asked.

There was a flicker of movement in her expression when she’d addressed him so respectfully that made him believe she’d hated saying those words. “There’s no need for such formalities between us, my lady. You are a queen, are you not?”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Would you like to see my dragons?”

“Oh, I can see them,” he said, turning his gaze on them nervously. He took a step backwards, further away from them.

Jon wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d laughed at him, or thought him stupid. But Dany then squeezed his hand. “They frighten me as well. That’s nothing to feel ashamed of. My children are wild and dangerous. But they love their mother. They won’t harm you unless I command it.” She offered him a teasing smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

Pulling him by the hand, she led him away from his guards and closer to her dragons. “The black one is Drogon. I named him for my first husband. The white one is Viserion, the green is Rhaegal. I named them for my brothers, Viserys and...”

“Rhaegar,” he said, finishing her sentence. They had come to a stop in front of the green dragon, who stared at him with eyes of molten gold. It opened its mouth, its teeth gleaming like black knives. Rhaegal then spread massive jade-green wings and stirred the air, and its neck swayed back and forth like an enormous snake. He hadn’t taken his eyes off of Jon.

“Be careful,” Dany warned, her hand encircling his wrist. “Rhaegal and Viserion grew quite savage in the dark, when I had to have them chained.”

He stared right back at the golden eyes of the green dragon. “I thought you said they only do as you command.”

He wasn’t afraid anymore. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew Rhaegal would not attack him. An overwhelming feeling came over him, a strong desire to reach out and stroke the dragon. Rhaegal crept closer, bringing his head nearer to Jon, its eyes still locked on him. And then Jon’s hand went forward through the air, and he stroked Rhaegal under one eye, gently scratching the dragon’s scales all the way down his large jaw. He then removed his hand, stepping back. The green dragon merely gazed at him.

Dany stared in shock at Rhaegal having allowed Jon Snow to touch him. Something inside her sent off warnings, and her stomach clenched with nerves. Her council was right. She needed to bring him under her influence, her control. “Your Grace, um… Lord Snow…”

Shaking his head, as if he’d been in a daze, Jon turned away from the green dragon and looked at her, raising his brows questioningly. She cleared her throat nervously. “My father never should have done what he did to your grandfather, Lord Rickard Stark, and your uncle, Brandon. It was vicious and cruel. He was an evil man. My brother Rhaegar, well, he did something stupid and caused these things to occur.”

“He kidnapped and raped my aunt Lyanna,” Jon replied flatly, looking away from her and at his guards standing on the other side of the clearing, their eyes wide with fear of the three dragons.

“Well, that’s the Starks’ side to the story,” she responded, lifting her brow at him. She then sighed. “The actions of my house, and yours, ripped apart the Seven Kingdoms. Maybe a union between House Stark and House Targaryen would put it back together again. We have a real chance to achieve peace in Westeros. Maybe that is our fate, the fulfillment of a prophecy.”

His gaze met hers, and he gave her a look of disbelief. He had to fight hard not to roll his eyes at the prophecy talk.

She licked her lips, thinking of another angle. “Maybe an alliance is our duty, for the honor of our house and also our own personal honor, to accomplish the greater good, to benefit the entire realm. With one marriage, we could avoid the needless suffering of thousands.”

He froze still. It was possible she had brought him to see her dragons as some kind of veiled threat. If that was the case, how could he refuse her and condemn the North to burn in a blaze of dragonfire? He’d only eventually be forced to bend the knee to save them all, but after how many had been killed? What if bending the knee was no longer good enough? What if she burned them all anyway? And what of Winterfell? Arya? And Sansa’s life? Jon then made his decision, and his heart sank to his stomach as the painful realization started to set in.


	17. A True Sacrifice Is Never Easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sacrifice ... is never easy, Davos. Or it is no true sacrifice." ~ Stannis; A Storm of Swords, Davos VI

Jon walked back to the west castle of the Twins with Daenerys Targaryen at his side, making their way past her soldiers and the camps, his three guards following behind them at a distance. At the river bank, the bridge sliding across the moat towards them, they met up with Missandei and her guard.

“I suppose if we’re to be married, we should try to become friends,” said Dany, staring at the back of Missandei’s head.

Filled with a dull sense of dread, he didn’t respond right away. “I suppose so,” he eventually replied once they’d set foot inside the castle.

She gave him a hesitant smile. “Who, in your opinion, is the most dangerous person in Westeros?”

“Um…,” he didn’t know whether that was a trick question or not, but suddenly thinking of Needle and everything that skinny blade had done, he grinned down at her. “My little sister.”

“Which one?” Dany countered.

He paused, only Arya coming to mind at first. But then he laughed. “Both.”

She nodded appreciatively. “What was your earliest childhood memory?”

“Winterfell. I remember snow falling from the sky, landing in my hair, my hands, on the ground, and running through the snow with my brother Robb.” He also remembered the mean, hateful glares from a beautiful woman with long, red hair. He wanted nothing more than for her to love him, like she loved Robb. But he didn’t want to speak of her to Daenerys. “What about you?”

“I only half-remember my childhood,” she said. “My brother Viserys never allowed us to stay in one place for long. We constantly moved. My memories of that time are only dim. But I think the happiest I ever was, was when I lived in the big stone house with the red door. There was a lemon tree outside my window. I remember crying when the red door closed. I knew that meant I was never going back.”

He nodded, continuing to walk beside her through the castle. “You lived in Dorne?”

Shaking her head, she pursed her lips. “We lived in Braavos.”

Sighing, memories from Arya’s tales of her life in Braavos came forward briefly. He then stopped as they approached the rising bridge gate, and turned to look at Daenerys. “Is this marriage truly what you want?”

She also came to a stop, and looked up into his serious face. “It’s not about what I want, or you want, or what anyone wants. That is not a luxury we possess, the ability to live solely to fulfill our wants. We are leaders of men. This is about honor and duty. This is about what’s best for my people, the people of the Seven Kingdoms, and your people in the North. This realm has known nothing but atrocities and bloodshed since the day my brother Rhaegar chose Lyanna Stark. Who can atone for this except you and I? Peace can never be lasting unless the people put their trust in it, and the people can’t put their trust in words alone. Deeds are valued far more than words. A real alliance between us must occur.”

He bowed his head, staring at the ground. What could he say? That she was wrong? He remained silent, for he believed in his heart that she wasn’t, no matter how much the reality of the situation pained him. He looked up and met her eyes. “But I don’t have time to deal with squabbles over the Iron Throne, to give my attention to whatever is needed to remove Cersei. The White Walkers are coming. Winter is here. Sooner or later, the Others are going to find a way south of the Wall. I have to find a way to stand against them. It will not matter who is on the throne, for they are not going to care. Countless thousands of the dead are going to march on the North and I don’t have the means to stop them.” His brows creased with worry, anxiety clouding his features.

Dany lifted her hand to his arm, gently enclosing her fingers around the crook of his elbow, her violet-blue eyes shining up at him. “You do now.”

Jon stared down at her. She smiled, and for the first time since he’d met her and her dragons not that long ago, her eyes were smiling too. He nodded silently and made to depart, telling her that he would see her later on at the welcoming feast that the east castle was holding in her honor. He then strode across the bridge with his guards. When he was half-way across, the gates rose and there stood a beautiful woman with long red hair, watching him, waiting for him. Her stare was not mean or hateful, but anxious, troubled, and filled with love. As he caught sight of her, his heart broke into a thousand pieces, shards that began to stab him over and over.

Across the river, in the west castle’s open passageway to the bridge, Dany remained standing, watching him greet the tall woman with the long red braid. From what Tyrion Lannister had told her, the woman had to be Jon Snow’s sister. He lifted a hand to the side of her head, and kissed her brow. She then slid her smaller hand into his larger one, their fingers entwining, and walked with him into the castle, quickly disappearing from view. With an uneasy feeling she couldn’t quite explain, Dany turned around and walked with Missandei and Grey Worm back to her chambers. Once inside, she called for Tyrion and Varys.

*****

Jon and Sansa climbed the stone steps to the top of the tower in silence, their three guards walking in front of and behind them. They didn’t dare speak until behind closed doors. Once they reached the landing to the fifth floor, they turned into the wide hallway. At the other end, Arya appeared with Needle strapped to her side within its leather scabbard, breathless as if she’d been running. At the sight of her siblings and the guards, she came to a sudden halt, eyes going wide. She then swallowed, and started walking towards them.

“Why were you coming up those stairs?” asked Jon curiously. “They only go to the kitchens.” As she came closer, he got a good look at her. “And you’re filthy. What have you been doing?”

“Uh…” Her eyes shot to her sister’s, nerves filling her stomach. “Well…”

Sansa gave her a look, knowing full well that she had snuck outside the castle to see her friend Gendry using that secret door down in the kitchens. “Were you hungry again? She’s constantly stealing food down there.”

Arya let out a breath of relief, giving her sister a grateful look. “Yes. I was really hungry. I didn’t want to wait until the feast.”

“Fine,” he replied, shaking his head. “Are Ghost and Nymeria still in my chambers?”

“Erm… no. I let them out. Wolves can’t stay pent up in a room all day. They’re somewhere in the castle, I’m sure.” She averted her eyes, remembering the screams in the kitchen as the direwolves had followed her down there, and that she’d last seen them running into the forest after she’d landed her jump onto the river bank.

He sighed. “Go take a bath. And try to look as presentable as you can in honor of the occasion. And no, you don’t have to wear a dress,” he quickly added before she could protest.

“The occasion?” she murmured to herself, turning to grasp the latch on her bedchamber. “It’s just a feast.” She then opened the door, quickly disappearing behind it.

Jon then followed Sansa inside the bridal chamber. Bill Liddle took his station outside the lord’s chambers, staring across the hall at the door they’d just closed. Luke Norrey and Owen Wull walked down to their quarters at the other end to get cleaned up before they had to accompany the Starks into the great hall for the welcoming feast. While talk all over the east castle had grown more and more excited that Daenerys Targaryen would be present, it also grew more and more discontent with the knowledge that the Ironborn would also be joining them.

Stepping near the featherbed where Sansa stood leaning up against an oak bedpost, gazing into her shimmering eyes, Jon at once saw her more clearly than he ever had before. She was a woman who deserved the best in life. The gods had rescued her from the vicious grasp of monsters, so that she might finally return home to the ones she loved, to once again dwell in safety, in security, to be given a second chance at fulfilling her childhood dreams. Who was _he_ to hurt her so? To stain her remaining years of life with regret and disappointment? Sansa deserved far better. She deserved far more than what he could ever be able to give her.

As she stared expectantly at him, her beautiful Tully-blue eyes full of fear and hope, soft with affection, Jon’s heart sank heavily within him. It would kill him, he knew, to deny his true feelings, to live without her. It would break his heart. It would break her heart as well. And yet, it was the right thing to do. It was the only honorable thing he could do. He had to protect her, from their enemies and even from himself and his desires.

He looked away from her face, unable to bear the pain and confusion he knew he would see in her eyes. “There will be a marriage alliance between myself and Daenerys,” he said quietly, the words ripping from him as if against his will, and he hated himself for saying them. “She wants to mend what was broken between our houses and achieve a peaceful rule without threat of rebellion. We need protection from her dragons, and even the chance to use them when the time comes to fight the Others. She won’t just help us out of the kindness in her heart. She needs something in return, a contract that assures her we will keep faith.”  

She listened to him with an incredulous shake of her head, her expression filling with disbelief. Tears filled her eyes and slowly ran down her cheeks as his words sank into her heart, filling her stomach like a stone weight. His words tightened her throat, and she was unable to speak. _Oh, please no. No, no, no._

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice shaking, his own eyes filling with tears. “I must do my duty.”

Sansa’s face hardened in anger, and bitterness rose up inside her. “Starks and their duty, their honor. Maybe there are more important things.”

Jon finally looked at her, eyes widening. “What do you suggest I do? They will inevitably force me to marry someone, whether it’s a Manderly girl or some daughter of a river lord. What am I supposed to do?” He was quietly pleading, aware of the guard who stood out in the hallway. Tears brimmed over and escaped his eyes. “That is what kings do. They make alliances that will benefit their cause, their people, regardless of their personal feelings. What I want doesn’t matter. Do you think I can marry you just because I love you? You think our throats wouldn’t be slashed in the middle of the night as we laid in the bridal bed? That we wouldn’t be strung up and hanged for our crimes?”

Her mouth fell open at his admission. He had never before spoken so plainly of his feelings, of their impossible situation, of what was happening between them. She had no answer, only more tears. He would marry eventually, and it would not be to her. He wiped the tears from his face, took a deep breath, and then left her chambers. As the door closed, Sansa made a fervent vow within her heart. If she could never marry Jon, then she would never marry anyone else. Damn her honor. And damn her duty.

Sometime later, she sat at the oak desk in her chambers, staring out the tall, shuttered window, lost in thought. The dark silhouette of a dragon appeared in the sky, and then just as quickly disappeared. There was a knock on her door. She didn’t want to answer. Another knock. Sighing, she stood up and crossed the room to the door. “Yes?”

“Lady Stark, there is a woman, Missandei, here to speak with you. She serves Daenerys Targaryen.”

Sansa immediately opened the door. “What is it?”

Holding a package in her hands, she bowed her head ever so slightly. “I am here on behalf of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the…”

“I already had the titles recited for me earlier, thank you,” she stated, abruptly cutting her off. “What does the queen want?”

Missandei’s eyes widened, but she quickly returned to her natural stance. “She merely sends you a gift, my lady, a silk gown from Essos, for you to wear tonight at the feast, and a message that she hopes to be your friend, and your sister. Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen, hopes that he correctly remembered your measurements, my lady.”

She accepted the package silently, and stared down at the parcel in her hands. “You may thank Her Grace, and tell her that I would be honored to wear her gift tonight.”

Smiling, Missandei bowed her head, and departed. Sansa closed the door to her chambers and set the parcel down on the featherbed, before slowly starting to unwrap it.

Washed and freshly dressed, Jon stepped out of his chambers and into the hall, walking further down to his sister’s bedchamber. He knocked. “Arya, are you ready to go down to the welcoming feast?” He heard the muffled sound of an audible groan inside, and chuckled. “Time to go.”

He walked back down towards the spiral steps and halted in front of the bridal chamber. Lifting his fist, he momentarily paused, and then knocked. “It’s Jon.”

“Come in,” he heard her say. He placed his hand on the latch, and then stepped inside her bedchamber.

She stood in front of the tall, shuttered window, looking out over the waters of the Green Fork. The wind coming off the river swirled around her, flattening her silk gown against her body in a way that made his heart pound. It was red, that gown, like her unbound hair that tumbled in soft curls down her back and almost to her waist. Swirls of bright, tiny rubies spiraled down her bodice. The gown was cut low, baring her shoulders and the tops of her breasts. Mouth watering, his lips parted and he stared. She was so beautiful. He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms.

“It’s time to go,” he said quietly.

Sansa turned from the window, steeling herself. “I’m ready.”


	18. When Honor And Duty Are Your Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The only gods they truly worshiped were honor and duty." ~ A Dance with Dragons, Melisandre I

Dany gathered her council together in the large meeting chamber on the ground floor of the east castle, Tyrion, Missandei, Grey Worm, Varys, Olenna Tyrell, Ellaria Sand, Yara Greyjoy, and Petyr Baelish sitting before her. They discussed the welcoming feast and their plans for the evening. Things could go well, or go completely wrong.

“So then you’re all behind this decision to wed?” she asked them, feeling somewhat apprehensive.

“Your Grace, you’d have a hard time finding a better man than Jon Snow,” said Tyrion. “He’ll never harm you, or treat you unfairly. I think his only fault is his Starkness.”

She knitted her brows. “What does that mean?”

His mouth curved into a slight smirk. “It means he lacks the wits to be a good liar. And he’s honorable past the point of sense, just like his father. The only gods Jon Snow truly worships are honor and duty. He left Castle Black many months ago, and yet I hear he’s declined every offer of a bedwarmer. What king declines a bedwarmer? A Stark, that’s who. He does strike me as the type who would suffocate from something as foolish as guilt. Maybe he has found it difficult letting go of the Night’s Watch vow. But death and resurrection can change a man. Or so I can only guess.”

“Maybe,” Dany said, the image of Jon Snow kissing the brow of his sister and taking her hand suddenly rising up in front of her.

“Although I did hear that he laid with a wildling girl,” offered Varys. “Maybe his honor comes and goes.”

Olenna chuckled under her breath. “Just like Ned Stark’s, who fathered the bastard.”

Smirking, Baelish licked his lips, but he folded his hands across his lap and remained silent.

Yara shrugged. “Well, at least we know the bastard’s cock works. Shouldn’t be too hard then for the queen to keep him on a leash.”

“Men will obey whoever has the firmest grip,” said Ellaria with a grin.  

Dany stared at her Hand, ignoring their comments. “You respect him.”

It wasn’t a question. He swallowed. “Yes, Your Grace.”

She nodded. “You admire him.”

“I admire the things he’s done, yes,” Tyrion answered cautiously. “Any thinking man would.”

“You are fond of him?” she asked, carefully eyeing her Hand.

He sighed, folding his hands across his chest. “I’ve always had a fondness in my heart for bastards and others who are downtrodden.”

She paused, not breaking eye contact. “Do you trust him?”

“I’d trust him with my life, Your Grace,” he replied.

“Yes, but do you trust him with mine?” Her steady gaze bore into him.

Tyrion reached out and placed a gentle hand on her wrist. “My queen, I swear on my life, and yours, that you can trust Jon Snow. If he swears fealty to you, he will never break it. If there’s one thing you can count on, it’s the unwavering honor of a Stark when it comes to things that truly matter, especially where their family is concerned.”

Nodding with a small, reassured smile, Dany accepted his words. But despite saying all this, something deep inside him doubted. He wasn’t sure if it was the knowledge of the broken Night’s Watch vow, or Ned Stark confessing before a vast crowd in front of the Sept of Baelor that the false charges against him were true, or the fact that he had dishonored his marriage vows all those years ago and brought a bastard home to Winterfell. But something told him that Jon Snow wasn’t as black and white as he appeared, and that hidden underneath were untold shades of grey.

“Your Grace, I can personally assure you that you can trust Lady Stark as well,” said Littlefinger. “Her union with the Vale in the near future will prove to be a great asset to you. Once Cersei is removed, the Seven Kingdoms will be wholly devoted to you.”

“Thank you for your assurances, Lord Baelish,” she replied. Tyrion and Varys exchanged a look.

Soon Dany dismissed everyone except her Hand, and he remained sitting beside her. “Is this going to work?”

“It’s as good a plan as any, and better than most,” Tyrion said.

“I’ll never give him any heirs,” she said. Surprised at the sudden feeling of regret, she quickly suppressed it. Her dragons were her children, they were the only children she would ever have, and she’d made her peace with it a long time ago. 

He sighed. “By the time he realizes, I am sure that he’ll be so in love with you it won’t matter. You will appoint an heir.”

Gazing down at her folded hands on the table, she thought for a moment. “And the plans for Sansa Stark?”

Guilt flooded Tyrion’s stomach. _Sansa Stark. A sweet, innocent girl. A political tool. Would anyone ever do right by her?_ “Duty means doing what needs to be done. The Starks do their duty.”

“Maybe it’s _our_ honor that comes and goes,” she said, her voice filling with sadness.

“Well, that’s the Targaryen way,” he quipped. “ _And_ the Lannister way. I’ll have it embroidered on a pillow. I’ll gift it to you on your name day.”

Dany laughed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed. She smiled with adoring eyes at her Hand, her friend.

*****

When Jon, Sansa, and Arya made their way down the tower to the castle’s ground floor, they were directed to the bridge gate, where they would form a line to receive their honored guests from across the river. Davos and Brienne, tended to by Podrick, also joined them as well as Jaime Lannister and Edmure Tully. Robyn Arryn and Petyr Baelish approached and stood in the receiving line. The west castle’s gate started to rise. A group of men and women appeared, gowns and leather jerkins. Standing at the front, in a gown of deep plum silk to bring out the violet in her eyes, was Daenerys Targaryen. They then began to cross over the bridge.

Dany reached the end of the line, where Jon and Sansa stood together, along with Arya. Her eyes met soon met a pair of bright blue ones. “Lady Stark. I must say that gown suits your coloring.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she replied, her voice cold and formal. “It was very generous of you.”

“Don’t be silly. It was nothing. I have plenty more gowns where that came from. As queen, I’ve received more gifts than I could ever want or use.”

Sansa blinked, her expression hiding any emotion. “The chore of being a queen, Your Grace.”

Nodding in silence, not having missed the girl’s not-quite-veiled sarcasm, she moved to step in front of Jon. “Your Grace,” she said with a smirk.

He bowed his head and then offered her his arm. Glancing behind her as they turned to enter the castle, she saw Tyrion take Sansa Stark’s hand and kiss her knuckles. Dany’s heart gave a lurch, but she quickly looked ahead and began making her way inside.

The east castle’s great hall was soon crowded. River lords and northmen, Unsullied and Ironborn, knights and sellswords, highborn and baseborn, maidservants and stable boys, they sat in long tables or stood against the walls. They were eating, drinking, and laughing. No one from the camp of House Baratheon was present, Daenerys Targaryen demanding their exclusion. Jon was seated on the dais at the front of the large hall, Daenerys to his left, Sansa to his right. Arya was also sitting beside her sister. Next to Daenerys sat her Hand, Tyrion Lannister, who also sat beside his brother, Jaime. Next to Jaime Lannister sat Edmure Tully, Lord of Riverrun. Next to Arya sat Olenna Tyrell of the Reach.

Jon then stood on the raised platform. Sansa turned slightly to look up at him. It was at that moment when she fully realized the responsibility he had to bear. Only when he was alone with her or with their sister did she ever see him smile, or laugh like the young man he still was. To everyone else he was always the lord commander, the King in the North, shoulders slumped with the weight of his worries, head bowed under the burden of an invisible crown.

He then addressed the crowd, and thanked the river lords for their protection and generous hospitality. “Northmen and rivermen have had long-standing alliances through the years, and despite the tragedy of the Red Wedding that occurred here at the Twins, the bond remains strong. Our history, despite recent tragedies, is also full of victories that we won side by side.” His words brought approving shouts from the crowd, but Jon raised his hand to quiet them. “Yet the realm remains unstable. It is only a matter of time before Cersei marches to defend her claim to the Iron Throne, and there will be other battles to win before Westeros is secure. Winter is here, my lords. The storm is coming, and the Night King does not care for thrones or alliances with men. He only brings death. We need to stand together to survive the wars to come.”

From the tables where the Stark bannermen and soldiers sat, Lord Wyman Manderly stood up, heaving his fist into the air. “The King in the North!”

Lords Glover and Karstark followed, standing and shouting, “King in the North!” The river lords sitting across the center aisle stood with a shout of “King of the Trident!” The great hall then became thunderous with shouting, cheers, whistles, pounding fists, and stomping feet.

“King in the North!”

“King of the Trident!”

The Ironborn and Unsullied in the crowd remained silent, and they stared at the raised platform. Trying to ignore their eyes, Dany’s heart pounded and her breathing quickened at what was happening before her. She turned an incredulous gaze on Tyrion, who have her an uneasy look. Jon Snow was not only King in the North, but he had just apparently been granted rulership over the Riverlands. How many more people would cling to him, how many more kingdoms would fall at his feet? And for what? He was a northern bastard, who had no right over the dominion of the river lords or any others.

 _She_ was Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, daughter of King Aerys II, Queen of the _Seven_ Kingdoms. _She_ deserved their love, their devotion, and they should be begging _her_ to rule over them. She suddenly pictured Jon Snow’s hand reaching out to stroke Rhaegal, of Viserion’s calm demeanor as a stranger had approached them and stood near their mother. Not even Drogon had bristled. A storm began to rage inside her. 

She looked up at her would-be betrothed, a steely glint in her eyes. He was not looking down at her. His head was bowed, but he was facing his sister. Dany turned and looked over, at the enraptured face of Sansa Stark gazing up at her brother. Her stomach knotted and her hands clenched into fists. He then turned to address her. “Do you want to tell them, or should I?” he asked, his expression somber.

Dany glanced once again at Tyrion, seeking his final advice on the matter. He nodded, and gave her a small smile. For a brief moment she thought he almost seemed sad, but she had no idea what for. She then stood as Jon Snow sat down. The men in the crowd started elbowing their fellows, and slowly a hush came over the great hall. She swallowed, took some deep breaths, and calmed her nerves.

“I am Daenerys Targaryen the First of Her Name. I know what the Targaryen name has meant to many people in this room. But I promise you that I am not King Aerys. I am no tyrant, and men of honor have nothing to fear from me or my dragons. My father, the Usurper, Robert Baratheon, and Tywin Lannister left the Seven Kingdoms in ruins. And Cersei’s vicious rule continues. This cannot stand, and we will soon hold a great council to decide how to act.

“The people of Westeros are _my_ people. I have fought night and day to come home, to take my rightful place among you, to repair the damage that was done so long ago. A wise man once told me that we make peace with our enemies, not our friends. I don’t want enemies, and I surely don’t want to make peace with them. But I do want friends. I need friends I can trust.” She turned and glanced down at the White Wolf, the King of the Trident and the North. “Friends like Jon Snow.”

Many in the crowd then cheered, and she smiled down at him. He noticed the smile never reached her eyes. She then turned back to face them. “There has been a long-standing animosity between House Stark and House Targaryen. Everyone here knows why. I seek to mend past hurts and ensure a lasting alliance. Peace between our houses would only mean peace for the entire realm. The actions of our forebears are the root cause of the suffering the Seven Kingdoms have experienced for over twenty years. But we can change that, here, tonight.”

Faces stared back at her, eyes wide and unblinking, mouths agape. They seemed mesmerized. She smirked. “Jon Snow will be my king, and I will be his queen.” The northmen and Ironborn stared in silence as everyone else around them started cheering.

“Sansa Stark, trueborn heir of House Stark and Lady of Winterfell,” Dany then announced to a cheering crowd. “I have no brother to promise her hand. But there is another house who was influential to the downfall of House Targaryen and House Stark, and a promise of lasting peace for the realm will require an alliance. I have no brother, but I do have a loyal Hand and he has an unwed brother. The Lord of Casterly Rock, Ser Jaime of House Lannister.”

The color drained from Sansa’s face, her stomach bottomed out. Seated at a table near the Stark bannermen, surrounded by the Knights of the Vale, Petyr Baelish filled with rage, his mouth a thin line, his eyes glinting with murderous hatred at the queen. Jon kept his face a masked expression, not allowing the crowd to see the storm raging inside, but his eyes were open wounds, and his heart was bleeding.

Dany looked out at the stunned faces staring back at her. “But I will never force a woman into a marriage against her will. The decision will be up to her.” She turned a smile on Sansa, and then spoke for all to hear. “Lady Stark, will you agree to this new marriage alliance, ending the bad feelings between our houses, and do your duty to help restore peace to the realm?”

All eyes were upon her now, waiting for her reaction. Sansa wanted to rip the blonde hair from Daenerys Targaryen’s scalp. But she kept her head held high and refused to let anyone know the truth of her feelings. “Yes, Your Grace. I accept.”

“In her children, two ancient houses of Westeros will become as one,” Dany said. “The long enmity between Stark and Lannister will be ended.” Most everyone cheered. The northmen did not, nor did the Ironborn. Neither did Jaime Lannister, whose shocked and confused eyes soon found Brienne’s pained ones in the crowd.

Raising her arm over the dais, Dany looked down the table. “The heir apparent, Arya Stark, Princess of Dragonstone!”

Arya’s eyes widened, and she turned a horrified gaze at her brother and sister. Sansa could only stare back in shock. Jon almost couldn’t believe what was happening. None of this had been discussed. He turned to Daenerys, and began whispering fervently. “Your Grace. Unless you want my sister to jump down from this platform and flee the castle, killing everyone who stands in her way, _don’t_ betroth her to anyone. _I’m begging you._ ”

Amused, she lifted her gaze back to the crowd. “At a more appropriate time and place in the future, a marriage alliance will be made for the princess.” Relief flooded Jon’s insides, but Arya couldn’t hide the look of disgust erupting across her face.

Dany smiled at the faces that stared back at her in adoration, the feeling of triumph and victory welling up inside her. “House Stark and House Targaryen will unite, once and for all time, and I will rule the Iron Throne in peace. I will make the world a better, safer place for all those who are loyal to me.”

While most everyone cheered, save the northmen and the Ironborn, the great hall once again becoming thunderous, Jon heard the underlining threat in those words. What would the world be like for those who weren’t loyal to her? It would no doubt be a world filled with dragonfire. He should’ve known that as a Targaryen, Daenerys would be given to extremes, and displays of genius cunning and brilliant ruthlessness. With two carefully-conceived marriages, Daenerys was about to gain absolute control of the Seven Kingdoms through the Starks and the Lannisters.

Once again taking her seat next to Jon Snow, she smiled and reached over to grasp his hand. His right hand fisted, opened, and fisted again. She could feel the distrust pouring off him like a cold gust of wind. He didn’t love her, and would never love her, she realized. But he would make use of her, and her dragons, to fight the Others. It didn’t matter to her. She didn’t need his love. She needed his dutiful loyalty.

Jon sat very still, staring down at the table, a terrible realization beginning to dawn on him. House Stark now faced extinction. His sisters would marry into other noble houses. Their children would not be Starks. Sansa’s children would be Lannisters. The North would pass to a Lannister. His guts twisted into knots. His children with Daenerys would never be given the name ‘Snow.’ Upon marrying, that name would no longer be his. As a bastard, he would no doubt have to take her name. His children would be Targaryens. He had just sacrificed House Stark in an effort to save thousands of lives. He couldn’t look at his sisters. But as his eyes found the disappointed faces of his bannermen, he realized that he was now the second King in the North to bend the knee to a Targaryen conqueror.

He had once dreamed of holding his newborn son in his arms, a son with the name Stark, and the name Robb would be given to him. He had dreamed that one day Winterfell would be his. Those dreams had once filled him with guilt, as Winterfell would never belong to him unless his siblings had all died. That thought had pained him greatly, and it had felt disloyal to dream of Winterfell’s lordship belonging to him. But when he reclaimed Winterfell with Sansa, all those dreams came back to him with a vengeance. And now all his dreams had been poisoned.

*****

Sansa sat quietly on the raised platform, sipping from a cup of mead. Arya had disappeared, and was probably either sulking in her bedchamber or had snuck out of the castle and was seeking solace with her friend in the House Baratheon camp. Daenerys was down below meeting the river lords. Jon was down below with his bannermen, guards, and Davos, no doubt explaining his reasons to them all. Lady Brienne had disappeared, too. Jaime Lannister as well. He had looked just as upset and bewildered over their sudden betrothal. She wondered if he still loved Cersei, even after everything that had happened, all the horrible things she had done.

She gazed down at her brother, standing there in his leather Stark armor. He consumed her thoughts. Jon Snow, so pure of heart, kind, just, and beautiful. Brave and gentle and strong. His face adorned with battle scars, and a dimple in his cheek when he smiled. She heard the sweetness of his laugh, she felt the warmth of his hands. She imagined pulling up his tunic and caressing the smooth skin underneath that covered the hard muscle, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing his lips, running her fingers through his thick black curls and losing herself in his deep brown eyes. Her face grew hot, her skin becoming flushed.

Then bitterness rose up inside her. She could only imagine, for it would never be. Noticing movement on the dais, Sansa looked over to see Tyrion Lannister walking toward her.

“Lady Stark,” he said, taking the empty seat next to her. “I must say, it makes me very happy to see you looking so well.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she replied, her voice empty of emotion. “I’m glad you are also doing well. You make a good Hand. You were a good Hand to Joffrey. He didn’t deserve it.”

Tyrion’s expression saddened. “I’m sorry you took the blame for his death. I know you were innocent of that crime. I wish things had been better for you. What my father and my sister did to your family, and to you, was as cruel as it was unfair. My brother is not the man people believe him to be. He has a good heart, and I know he will never harm you. He will be good to you. You have my word.” He paused, sighing. “Not that my word means much to you, of course…”

She looked away from him. “I thank you for the kindness you’ve bestowed on me, my lord, both now and in the past. I know I wasn’t very appreciative of it at the time.”

“My lady.” He shook his head. “You were suffering.”

“Yes. I was.” Her voice was cold, and unfeeling.

Hanging his head, Tyrion paid his respects and left her side, unaware that a pair of eyes were on him – violet-blue eyes, eyes that were keeping vigil on all that was passing between Jon Snow and Sansa Stark, and all those who spoke with them.

The third hour into the welcoming feast, musicians and singers entered and placed themselves on the second floor of the great hall. Lords and ladies, knights and handmaidens, lined up to begin the dancing. From her seat on the dais, Dany stood. “I wish Ser Jaime Lannister and Lady Sansa Stark, our newly betrothed, to lead the first dance.”

Seated next to her, Jon looked at her out of the corner of his eye and groaned internally. She then sat back down, and he noticed she seemed rather pleased with herself. Raising a wall of steel in front of her, Sansa dutifully stood up from her chair. She walked off the raised platform and joined the others who had started lining up on the floor in front of the tables. Jaime Lannister then appeared, pursing his lips and bowing his head. She thought he didn’t look happy about it either. It proved to be rather awkward as he had to take her hand and lead with his left, his golden hand going around her waist and holding her against him.

“I see we’re both once again being forced into doing something neither of us want to do by our own families,” he said to her as they started to move together. “But I suppose dancing isn’t too terrible.” He offered a weak smile, trying hard to lighten the burden that weighed upon them.

“Yes,” she replied. With a sinking feeling, she realized that the dance was not one that involved the swapping of partners, and would therefore remain at the Kingslayer’s side for the duration.

They obeyed the steps of the dance, moving to the rhythm of the music, and Jaime began to whisper. “I can only guess what you must think of me, my lady. But let me say that I’m not ashamed of loving Cersei. I was never ashamed of loving her. If I could have, I would’ve taken her as my wife for all to witness, to hell with the gods and the narrow opinions of men. I was only ashamed of the things we were forced to do in order hide our love, the horrible things I did to keep it a secret from the world. That secret brought untold suffering, not only to ourselves and our children, but to countless others. And in the end, the whole world found out anyway. I’m ashamed of what my father did to your family, what Cersei has done. The stain will be on the Lannister name forever. I take no pride it in. If Lady Catelyn had been here now, how she would weep. When I said that I would keep my promise to her, and to your house, I meant what I said. If we indeed do marry, I will abandon the Lannister name and take yours. I will give Casterly Rock to my brother, so that you may always remain at Winterfell. For the rest of my days I will do whatever is in my power to do right by your lady mother, and by you.”

The music slowed and came to an end, and so did their movements. Sansa stared at him with wide eyes, her lips parted, shocked by what he had just offered her. Yet her stomach had knotted fiercely when he spoke of the love he shared with his sister. She didn’t know what to say to him, and so she said nothing. She bowed, and turned from him. Music then started up again, another dance beginning, and suddenly her uncle Edmure Tully of Riverrun was in front of her, asking her to dance. She had little desire to return to the dais and sit with Jon and Daenerys, so she accepted his offer and took his hand.

The entire time Sansa had been on the floor, Jon hadn’t taken his eyes off her. The sight of her in the arms of Jaime Lannister, like one of the tall, golden-haired knights of her childhood dreams, drove him mad. Jealousy gnawed at the pit of his stomach, and there was no escaping the greed filling his heart. Seeing her dance in that red silk dress, gazing at the shape of her face, the red of her hair, the curve of her body, the tops of her breasts quivering with her movement. He stared at her tiny wrists attached to firm, round arms, the milky skin of her shoulders and neck. He fantasized pressing his lips to the soft skin of her neck, her shoulders. The thought that he would never be able to hold her, touch her, love her filled him with anguish.

Sitting beside him, Dany watched his demeanor. She watched his hands clutch the arms of his oak chair, his knuckles going white with the strain. Her eyes lifted to his face, his eyes, and then she followed his gaze to the floor to where Sansa Stark danced. Her heart started to pound, and her breathing quickened. Her eyes flew from Jon Snow to Sansa Stark, glancing between them with a slowly hardening expression. She thought he looked like a jealous lover, glowering at the men his sister danced with, and especially Jaime Lannister.

She turned and looked at her Hand beside her, catching his eye with a widened stare. He leaned forward in his chair and turned to look at Jon Snow, following the young man’s gaze until his eyes locked on Sansa Stark. He kept looking between them, and a few times it seemed as though she returned her brother’s looks, melting under his gaze. He knew those looks. He’d seen them before, but between a different pair of siblings. Tyrion then turned to look at Dany once again, her hard face meeting his. He filled with dread, his heart sinking into his stomach like an iron weight.


	19. The Bane Of Honor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains VERY sexually explicit material of an incestuous nature. If that sort of thing grosses you out and offends your sensibilities to the point that you cannot even tolerate its inclusion in a work of fiction, then just don't read it. Don't flame me. Like D&D and GRRM, I apologize for nothing.

As the fifth hour of the welcoming feast approached, Jon Snow once again watched Daenerys Targaryen stand up on the raised platform where they sat. He sighed. What more could she possibly have to say? A hush broke out over the great hall and after she addressed the crowd, she began to speak.

“Two days hence, the lords and ladies of the Great Houses of Westeros shall gather together to discuss the future of the Seven Kingdoms and how to reestablish the rightful ruler upon the Iron Throne. I am sure you all saw the banners flying the crowned black stag against a field of gold. House Baratheon is no more, and shall never be again, no matter what their claim is. I have no tolerance for the Usurper, nor any that should rise from his house. Three days hence, we shall ride with Lady Stark to her mother’s Riverlands home at Riverrun, on the Red Fork of the Trident. There in the godswood she will be tied to Ser Jaime Lannister by marriage, wedding her by the old rites of her father beneath the ancient weirwood tree. This will mark the beginnings of better days to come. Houses will unite, grudges will be laid down, Cersei’s rule will come to an end, and the Seven Kingdoms will see peace once more.”

The great hall erupted mostly in cheers, while some remained noticeably dissatisfied with what had been said. Jon didn’t dare look at his sister. Three days. In three days she would be married to Jaime Lannister. The thought of her being forced into another man’s bed made his gut churn, making him feel half-sick, leaving his hands shaking in anger. The thought of her being forced into another man’s arms, being kissed and touched and entered, when she loved and cared for someone else, greatly disturbed him. He’d promised her that she would never be forced to marry again, and this broken promise tore at his insides. He felt desperate to find some way out of the marriage contract. But how could he stop this from happening and still keep the North safe from Daenerys and her dragons?

Sansa stared out into the faces of the crowd, unseeing. Everything was a blur. She thought for a moment that she should have been furious but she felt detached, almost unfeeling. Something cold rose up in her chest, and she bitterly resigned herself to the situation at hand. The feeling of defeat inside her grew stronger, and she had lost any desire to suppress it or overcome it. She felt numb to the world, hollowed out, like the moment when she had resolved in her heart the action she would take should they lose the battle for Winterfell to Ramsay Bolton. Three days hence. Three days hence the heart of her soul would die. Unless she took some necessary action.

*****

Jon escorted Daenerys to the east castle’s bridge gate, the revelry in the great hall continuing and no doubt would continue late into the night. Missandei, her guard, and Tyrion walked behind them, along with Varys, Ellaria Sand, and Olenna Tyrell, who immediately started to walk across the torch-lit bridge without lingering in the gateway. With one look to Missandei, she and her guard stepped away from their queen, leaving a respectful distance.

He sighed. “Marriages for my sisters were never discussed or agreed upon.”

Dany pursed her lips. “That is what happens in alliances. It was to be expected. It is not my fault that you overlooked this.”

“Forcing my sister to marry another Lannister is not acceptable,” he said, glowering at her. He then shot Tyrion an uneasy look. He had liked the dwarf, and the dwarf had been a friend to him during those early days at Castle Black when he’d needed one. “I will do whatever is needed for the greater good. I will fulfill my duty. But what of my duty to my sisters?”

“Your duty to your sisters is to see them well cared for and protected until the end of their days,” said Tyrion. “Are we so treacherous as to deliver the innocent lives of your sisters into the hands of cruel beasts who will force them to drink from the cup of misery? We will not wed Lady Arya to a monster. I promise that you will have a say in the choice. And I’ve spoken to my brother. He wishes your sister every happiness and swears on his life that no harm will ever come to her while under his care. Jaime understands that alliances at a time of war are necessary, and the purpose of marriage is to strengthen those alliances, to preserve the honor and security of one’s house. Your father understood this. His marriage to Catelyn Tully was a necessity required of life during wartime. It was the honorable thing to do. He did his duty. You will do yours. And your sisters will do theirs.”

Dany stared at her betrothed with a glint of suspicion spread across her features. “Can you think of any reason why your sisters should never be married?” Her Hand averted his eyes, looking away from the young king.

Jon stared back at her, his guts twisting into knots. He had no real answer. His only reason was one he could never utter. “No, Your Grace.”

“Well and good,” Tyrion quickly replied with a nod, wanting the conversation to be over.

“But what about the security and future of House Stark?” he asked him, glaring at him pointedly.

Heaving a sigh, closing his eyes, the Hand of the Queen paused before replying. “Your brothers are dead. They cannot carry on the Stark name and neither can you. We are not taking Winterfell away from Lady Sansa. There she will live and raise her children.”

He shook his head, his expression one of suppressed anger. “Who will have the name _Lannister_.”

“Well, actually, uh…” Tyrion hesitated, not having yet shared this information with his queen. He gave her a quick nervous glance before responding. “My brother has offered to cast off the Lannister name and even surrender Casterly Rock so that Lady Sansa’s children can take the Stark name. Your sister’s children are bound to inherit Winterfell, and probably Casterly Rock along with all the power that goes with it. I would think this would be most agreeable to you and your northmen. Don’t you have that saying up there? _There must always be a Stark in Winterfell._ So don’t fret, because there will be.”

Dany’s eyes flew to her Hand, anger rising. The Starks would inherit the North, and most likely the Riverlands thanks to the river lords declaring Jon Snow the King of the Trident, and would no doubt maintain a stable alliance with the Vale through their cousin Robin Arryn. And now because of Jaime Lannister’s misplaced chivalry, the Starks would now inherit the Westerlands as well. Olenna Tyrell spoke nothing but sweet things about Sansa Stark. Dorne was in freefall after what had happened to House Martell. Arya Stark would most likely make an alliance with Dorne or the Reach. Would there be a kingdom left in Westeros that did not fall under the Starks’ influence? Her pact with the Bastard of Winterfell was now more crucial than ever. She had to ensure his loyalty to her.

Jon had no reply for Tyrion. His lords bannermen had been heartily disappointed and angry over what had transpired in the great hall. They feared for the North, for House Stark, and for what would become of the realm now that a Targaryen with dragons was gaining control. He could only assure them that with a King in the North sitting beside her, they had little to fear. He’d hoped they had believed him, even though he wasn’t sure whether he believed his own words. No doubt many concerns would be raised at the great council meeting. House Stark would live on through Jaime Lannister, and not through him. His broken heart began to fill with even more sadness and grief.

“Will you leave us?” Dany said to her Hand. “I wish to speak to my betrothed in private.”

Tyrion glanced between her and the king. He then bowed and turned to walk down the bridge towards the west castle, hoping she wouldn’t say or do anything foolish. When he reached the half-way point, he stopped to wait for his queen.

She stepped closer to Jon, her hand going to his arm, fingers gently sliding up his forearm until they reached the crook of his elbow. “Will you visit me in my chambers tonight?”

Cold filled his gut, his face hardening. “I could never dishonor you, Your Grace.”

“We are betrothed, my king,” she said, her voice smooth as silk. “We are as good as wed, in the eyes of men and the gods. I’m told there is no greater honor for a queen than to serve the king’s pleasure.”

He looked at the ground, not meeting her eyes. Since when did Targaryens care about the opinions of men or the gods? And Daenerys Stormborn did not strike him as a woman who cared much about the pleasure of men, especially a king’s. “When we are married, I will do my duty and come to the bridal bed. But no sooner.”

Dany lowered her hand from his arm. Humiliation welled up inside her at the rejection. “Your duty.” The word was cold, and it tasted like bitterness on her tongue. She recalled a conversation she’d once had with Ser Barristan Selmy. She’d asked him if her brother Rhaegar had married Elia Martell of Dorne out of love or duty. The old knight had hesitated, and then spoke highly of Princess Elia’s kindness, gentle heart, and sweet wit. He’d said Rhaegar had been very fond of Elia. Fond. That had told her everything she’d needed to know. Her brother did his duty, and then eventually grew _fond_ of his wife.

Perhaps in time she could grow fond of Jon Snow. She could even imagine it. She guessed that beneath his brooding exterior lay a gentle heart and a sweet disposition. But she doubted he would ever grow fond of her. Their marriage would only ever be duty. The bridal bed would only be a place where he performed his duty. There would never be passion. There would never be love. And when he finally realized that she would never bear him a child, the purpose of his duty then becoming irrelevant, he would never again come to the bridal bed. For the first time since she’d arrived in Westeros, she thought of Daario, and her heart began to fill with sadness. But then her thoughts suddenly went to Sansa Stark and the looks she shared with her brother, his mad expression of jealousy and anger when she danced with other men.

Dany looked up at Jon Snow, knowing he had reserved his love and passion for someone else, bid him goodnight, and walked away towards her Hand, before disappearing with him inside the west castle.

*****

Jon watched the west gate close after them, and heaved a deep sigh. His gaze then fell on the east bank of the river. The camps were lit with fires or torches and people were milling about. He saw a girl wearing boy’s clothing, with a leather scabbard hanging from her belt, walk into a tent with a banner of a black stag flying over the top. He sighed again, shaking his head and closing his eyes, before walking back into the castle. He was soon approaching the east castle’s main gate, kept open, with the plank bridge lowered to the bank.

He approached the Stark camp, and entered to greet his soldiers. They were eager to speak with him, to hear his words of reassurance and support. But mostly they were eager just for his presence, the security they found in their king. With a pang he realized how much these northmen loved him, knowing they would do whatever he asked of them, knowing they would even die for him. Were the lives of his sisters worth more than the lives of their sisters, their fathers and mothers, their wives, their children? Possibly, as the trueborn daughters of Ned Stark. But could he condemn their families to dragonfire just to spare his sisters from a marriage alliance? And then what? Just let the North burn? Let the Night King cover their lands with death when there could have been a way to save themselves? Why would Daenerys come to their aid if he spurned her alliance? But the thought of casting aside his love for Sansa made him half-sick with despair.

After a short time, he left the Stark camp and made his way over to the Baratheon camp, two of his soldiers insisting they accompany him as his guards. He then stepped inside a tent, finding Arya sitting on a bench in front of a small table made of wood. Her elbows were bent on the table top, her expression miserable. Across from her sat Gendry Waters, his lips pursed, his face sympathetic.

Arya gave a slight jump of surprise at the sudden appearance of her brother, but quickly recovered and glared at him.

“What did I tell you about leaving the castle?”

“I’m not going back in there,” she replied crossly. “How could you do this?!”

He closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know you and Sansa would get pulled into it.” _You know nothing, Jon Snow._ He sighed. “I should have known, and I’m sorry.”

Folding her arms against her chest, she gave him a defiant look. “If I have to marry some stupid lord who thinks he’s going to take my maidenhood and make a woman of me, I’ll make a eunuch of him.”

Jon almost laughed, but checked himself. “I don’t doubt it.” He then turned a suspicious gaze on Gendry, the young man’s face reddening with embarrassment and lowering to stare at the table. Some relief filled him, knowing that his sister’s insistence on frequenting Gendry Waters’ tent was innocent. Yet he wondered what kind of intentions a man over the age of twenty could have when a sword-carrying girl wearing leather and breeches was his constant companion.

“Fine,” he sighed. “You don’t have to come back to the castle tonight. But you will sleep in the Stark camp. And I want to see you in the morning. We’ll breakfast together, just you and me. We’ll talk then. Is that agreeable to you?”

“Yes,” she answered begrudgingly, eyes on the table in front of her.

With a lingering steely gaze on Gendry, the young man sinking slightly lower in his seat, Jon stepped out of the tent. Glancing around, nodding at his guards, his eyes fell on a tent of heavy canvas, dyed red. He saw the shadows of flames dancing on the tent’s walls. He knew the red priestess was there. Jon then made a snap decision. Commanding his guards not to follow, he walked toward the red tent, before lifting the entrance flap and stepping inside without hesitation.

Within the tent, the air was warm. Lady Melisandre of Asshai was sitting near her fire, her ruby necklace shimmering against her ivory skin. Upon sight of him, she stood. “I knew you would come eventually, Jon Snow. I prayed to the Lord of Light to send me guidance to help you.”

“You once told me that your fires are never wrong, but that it was only mortal priests who sometimes mistake what they see.”

Her face fell slightly. “Yes. I have made mistakes. I thought this must come or that must come, when something else came instead. But the fire is never wrong. The Lord of Light is never wrong. Or else you would not be here.”

He glanced at her fire. “You have heard of my alliance with Daenerys Targaryen?”

“Yes.”

“In my heart, I don’t want to go through with it. I can’t see myself…”

She gazed at him, at his troubled expression, his brows creased with anxiety. “I know you love another, Jon Snow. But I don’t need the fire to tell me that.”

Anguish consumed him. “Daenerys… I cannot marry her.” His chest tightened. He then tore his eyes from the fire and looked at the red woman. “Who do you say I am?”

“The one true king of Westeros, the prince that was promised, who will save us from the Other who wants to drag the world into the long night.”

“And there is power in king’s blood?” he asked.

Her red eyes widened, her heart pounding, hoping he was finally starting to believe. “Yes, Jon Snow. There is.”

His gaze fell on the nearby table, and quickly moved towards it, lifting a small dagger. He carried it back, spread his left palm, and sliced. Reaching above the fire, his squeezed his hand into a fist, his blood dripping onto the flames. They were hot, but they did not burn him. “Tell me what you see.”

Melisandre then walked around the fire three times, praying to the Lord of Light, once in the speech of Asshai, once in High Valyrian, and once in the Common Tongue. She then stared into the flames, her eyes blazing like twin fires. “I see a wall of ice falling and dragons flying over Winterfell… dragonfire… you in the winter’s storm, surrounded by enemies, their eyes like blue ice… I see…” She paused, staring. “I see you weeping over the slain body of your sister. Your tears are flame, and her body is ash.”

 _No._ He guts filled with panic. “Which sister? I have two.”

She stepped back and looked at him. “The fire has only shown me one, and what her name is I could not tell you. The Lord of Light did not reveal that to me.”

Some minutes later, he was sitting silently at her table while she spread ointment over the gash in his left palm and wrapped it with a strip of linen. “I have to marry Daenerys, don’t I?” he asked, his face somber.

“I once told you that the Lord of Light would hear your prayers, Jon Snow. It’s the only way to save your sister and still hold fast to the honor that means so much to you.”

Moments later, with a heavy heart Melisandre watched him walk out of her tent. She knew he was already starting to doubt, despite everything she had seen. Jon Snow, born a bastard, always having lived in the shadow of his trueborn brother under the contemptuous glares of nearly everyone else around him, was an unbeliever by nature. He was suspicious and mistrustful of others, of strangers, of things foreign and unknown. She prayed the Lord of Light would come to his aid.

*****

Sansa sat upon her featherbed and stared at the open wardrobe against the wall. The red silk dress with rubies on the bodice hung there. She wanted to burn it. She could still hear noise drifting up to the tower from the great hall. It was two hours until midnight, and they would no doubt be drinking and feasting well into the night. Her thoughts dwelled on the events to come at the Twins over the next two days, the great council meeting, and what was planned for her three days hence. She pondered her duty, her honor, and the truths within her heart. She considered her options and the actions she could take.

Hearing the door across the hall open and shut, her breathing started to quicken and her stomach fluttered nervously. After some minutes, a decision was finally made. She slid off the bed and crossed the room. With a deep breath taken and a heart full of determination, she grasped hold of the door latch and walked out into the dimly-lit hallway. She moved quickly toward the lord’s chambers. Placing her hand on the latch, her heart pounding beneath her ribs, she opened the door and stepped inside.

Jon looked up at the sound of the door opening, stepping back from his wardrobe where he had just placed his leather jerkin. Surprised to see her at first, he had supposed that she was still down at the feast. She stood there in her sleeping shift, her unbound hair falling loose over her shoulders, her back pushing the door closed, her fingers going to the latch, locking it. The pit of his stomach tightened. They gazed silently at each other, thoughts filling the space between them but no words were immediately spoken.

Her eyes roamed over him, taking in his dark hair pulled back from his face, the linen tunic tucked into his laced up dark grey breeches. His feet were bare, his boots lying in a corner near the wardrobe. She noticed the bandage. “What happened to your hand?”

He sighed, shaking his head as he shrugged his shoulders. “I cut myself.” He didn’t want to talk about the red woman, or her fire. His eyes went to his chambers door behind her, and he changed the subject. “Did you see Bill Liddle out there? He wasn’t at his post.”

“I sent him down to join the rest of our men at the feast when I came up to my chambers,” she said.

His mouth went dry, and he swallowed. “There should be a guard posted.”

She nodded. “We’ll be safe during the few hours they’re away celebrating. Our guards should enjoy the feast. It’s a joyous occasion.”

Closing his eyes at her sarcasm, he looked down. “I don’t know what to say. I never wanted… I never thought…” He sighed. “I’m just trying to protect you.”

Pushing off from the door, she started to walk towards where he stood. She gazed at him. He couldn’t help staring at her breasts, at the way they moved beneath the loose shift. She drew closer, and he could smell her skin, the familiar light flowery scent with a hint of lemon. His stomach knotted, his heart pounded, his darkening eyes met hers in a steady gaze. “I’m being handed back to the Lannisters,” she said. “I’m being forced to wed yet another man. Men plot and plan and scheme, and I’ve been nothing but a pawn in their games. A highborn daughter of a lord who they can keep in their beds until I give them an heir – that’s all I’m good for in their eyes.”

His breathing became shaky, and his eyes pricked with hot tears as a wave of despair washed over him. “We have no choice. We must do what needs to be done.”

“There’s always a choice,” she replied, moving closer to him. “In three days,” she whispered, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “We’ll be parted forever.”

“I’ll always be with you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “In heart and in mind.”

His words struck her deep inside. It was the same for her. When she was gone from his life, when he was wed to someone else and a distance of a thousand leagues lay between them, he’d be in her thoughts, her feelings. And in her dreams. But it wasn’t good enough. It would never be good enough.

Jon felt powerless, unable to stop their hearts from breaking. “We must do our duty.”

Sansa choked back a sob as tears stung her eyes. “And what of our love, the duty that binds our hearts? The cord that binds our souls? What about the honor we owe to each other?”

He gazed at her with widening eyes, tears welling up, and he heaved a shaky breath.

“And it pains me to know that we will go through this life forever barred, never joining our bodies and souls as one, as we truly are. _We_ are man and wife, if ever two people were in this world,” she cried.

His eyes brimming over, Melisandre’s vision came back to him – the tears of flame and the body of ash. The thought of losing Sansa without ever having been able to love her clawed at his insides. The words of Maester Aemon suddenly came forward in his mind, like an echo from the past:

_“Tell me, Jon, if the day should ever come when you must choose between honor on the one hand and someone you love on the other, what will you do?”_

At the time, he’d dismissed the question as contradictory. How could love and honor be in opposition to one another? But he was just a boy then, and knew nothing. Now he was a man, and he at least knew some things. He knew what choice he was about to make.

They gazed fixedly at each other, breathing hard, their faces sobering with intensity as their hearts pounded. They were keenly aware of the pain of their mutual love and attraction, again hesitating on the brink of an intimacy which they at once feared and desired. Their eyes held, the realization then dawning that the time for hesitation was over, and they rushed forward into each other’s arms.

Their lips met with a tender, powerful force, and they covered each other in passionate kisses. Joy and pleasure surged through their veins, and her senses flooded with new sensations. His fingers speared into her soft, red hair and cupped the back of her neck. Not an audible word was spoken, and only a satisfied humming and sighing could be heard amid the faint music in the air around them that was still floating up from the feast in the great hall below.

The delicious heat of his body molded to hers, almost making her dizzy. His arms went around her back, and he fisted her linen shift in his hands. She clung to him as his kisses deepened, opening her mouth to the gentle nudge of his tongue. Pleasurable chills pebbled her skin as his warm hands moved to caress her hips through the linen material that covered them. He pulled her tighter to him, and felt his cock begin to press against the lacings of his wool breeches. His need called to hers, bold and demanding, and she pushed him toward the large featherbed until the back of his legs hit the mattress. He wanted to cover her body with his own, to protect her and pleasure her and promise her a future that could never be theirs.

His eyes were heavy with desire as he sat down on the bed, taking her with him. She climbed onto his lap, straddling him, and they clung to each other in lustful passion. Her center felt swollen and wet, and as his lips went to her neck her eyes rolled back in her head. She began to slowly move her hips over his, seeking relief to the tension coiling tight at her center, quickly finding the rigid hardness beneath his breeches.

Sansa froze, stiffening, the pit of her stomach tightening, and shifted until her center moved closer to his thigh. She realized that she had suddenly felt fearful. All she had ever known was pain and degradation at the hands of Ramsay Bolton, and in some way or another, at the hands of nearly every man since the death of her father. Noticing the change in her demeanor, Jon leaned back and turned his head until his concerned eyes met her blue ones, darkened with emotion. He brought his hand up, gently caressing her jaw with the tips of his fingers. She looked down into his softened expression, and saw his gaze was full of love.

Her mouth curved into a smile, the twinge of fear now dissipating, and she reached to the back of his head, pulling until his hair was no longer bound. His soft, black curls fell loose, and gazing down at his brown eyes full of affection, she tenderly caressed his cheek with her palm. He was brave and gentle and strong. He was good and kind and he cared for her. He would never hurt her. This was what she’d needed, just one night to feel truly loved and cherished. Her lips then recaptured his, her hands sinking into his dark curls.

She soon gripped his linen tunic and lifted it over his head. Anticipation fired her already heated blood as his lips again found hers, her arms going around his shoulders, her fingers languidly caressing the soft skin of his back, her body pressed against his. She rocked her hips over his muscled thigh and a white-hot arrow of pleasure shot straight to her throbbing center. The pleasurable jolt was unexpected, hitting without warning. Her body tensed and then quivered like a released bow. She moaned and whimpered, hanging onto his shoulders while her body bucked and shivered.

Dazed by the delicious waves pulsing through her, she was breathing hard and slow to open her eyes. When she did, Jon’s face was inches below hers. His eyes widened and his cheeks had reddened even more. His throat bounced as he swallowed. She pressed her brow to his, and sighed with satisfaction. Sansa had never felt anything like that before. Her silken smallclothes beneath her linen sleeping shift were soaked through with her wetness. She craved more. “More, more, more,” she whimpered against his mouth.  

He let out a breathy laugh, and then his hands went to her creamy thighs, grasping the hem of her shift. Pausing, his eyes met hers, as if seeking permission. She smiled at him, and then lifted her arms, a grin spreading across his face. The shift was soon up and over her head, and then quickly discarded to the floor. He enfolded her in his arms. They both groaned and went still, relishing the feel of it, their skin pressed together, the softness of her breasts caressing his chest.

Her mouth then found his again, kissing him passionately. Such a simple connection, and yet the invisible cord that bound their hearts together, their souls, pulled tighter and strengthened. Over and over they kissed, sharing their breath and life, until they were both breathing roughly and needing more. He lifted his hands, running his thumbs across the tips of her breasts. They tightened instantly, and he relished in how sensitive she was to his touch.

A moan escaped her throat at the feel of his hands on her, her need twisting inside her, coiling tighter at her center, and then she was desperately tugging at the laces of his breeches. She unerringly found him with her hand. When she ran a finger along his thick length in curious exploration, circling the sensitive head of him, he jumped from the overwhelming sensation. He sucked in a breath and held it, reining in his need. Unable to stand her soft touch, he reached up behind her and lifted, flipping her over onto the featherbed so that her back lay on the mattress. He quickly removed the drenched smallclothes from around her hips, tossing them to the floor.

She pulled him down to her waiting lips, her legs wrapping around his waist. Breaking their kiss, he pulled back and gazed down at her. Bringing his hand up, his fingertips caressed her cheek, her jawline, her chin, her mouth. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

She gazed up at him adoringly, a sweet smile spreading across her face. “So are you,” she whispered in return.

His need throbbed achingly, and he couldn’t wait very much longer. “Do you trust me, Sansa?”

Wide-eyed, she nodded, licking her lips before letting out a shaky breath of anticipation. He kissed her lips, before lowering himself to her breasts, taking her deliciously hard nipples into his hot mouth. The muscles in the pit of her stomach tightened with need. The throbbing ache at her center intensified. She started whimpering, soft mewls at the back of her throat. But then he stopped. She opened her eyes and saw him staring down at her, becoming transfixed by the intensity of his gaze, filled with desire. His eyes were so much darker than she had ever seen them before. The tight skin over his cheekbones was flushed with color. Sansa felt a rush of desire and a feeling of power wash over her, to see Jon look at her that way. It was impossible to measure just how much she wanted him, needed him, just how much she loved him.

He moved his hand down her body, sliding his fingers through the red curls protecting her secret sweetness, stroking her as she throbbed and swelled in response to his touch. He leaned over her once again, capturing a taut nipple in his mouth as he slid his hand down through her wet folds, sinking his forefinger deep inside her cunt. She moaned, her hands going to his head, holding him against her as his mouth suckled and his fingers stroked. Deep in her belly, indescribable tension pulled tighter and tighter.

Removing his hand from her center, he started to slide down. His lips trailed down her body, and she clenched her legs around him. He caught her thighs, pressing them wider apart, until his mouth reached that slick spot between her legs that throbbed with ache and want and desire. He stared at her pink center, and felt his balls tighten, felt his cock throb against his wool breeches, and then raised his eyes to meet hers. She licked her lips, and her chest heaved with anticipation. His face flushed even deeper. She had no idea what he was doing, but the sight of him filled her mind with wanton lust. Blood roared in her ears and her hands fisted the bed linen.

She then gasped as his mouth found her sensitive flesh. His slid his tongue down her center, and once finding the hardened nub, he sucked her into his mouth. Moans pushed past her lips from the back of her throat, along with the occasional whimpered, “Oh, gods.” Her arousal flowed hot and wet onto his tongue as tension built in her muscles. With each stroke of his tongue, she tightened and swelled. The more she whimpered his name, he knew the closer she was to the precipice. With one last forceful stroke of his tongue against her sensitive bud as he held it between his lips, her body suddenly went rigid and her hands flew to his head, tightly pressing him down against her. She shattered, erupting with hot waves of pleasure.

He stayed with her, his mouth not leaving her center, pushing her higher, then bringing her back down with soft kisses on her inner thighs, before sending her flying again towards another peak, her cries filling the chambers. He stood up, finally removing his breeches and smallclothes, watching her body tremble as she lay on the featherbed.

She felt in a daze, and had never imagined she could feel such ecstasy. Suddenly he loomed over her. She grabbed hold of him, pulling him down on top of her, her mind frantic with arousal. Her mouth hungrily sought his. Her kiss was wild with passion, all open mouth and thrusting tongue as she spread her knees wide. His hips settled between her legs and she locked her thighs around him. They shifted until his cock was cradled against her slick, swollen folds.

He moved down to her entrance, and worked himself inside. They gasped as her wet heat enclosed around him. She was so hot, so wet, and so tight. He had to devote every last ounce of his control to holding himself back. He dropped his head, hovering over hers. He rocked forward and started to thrust, slowly at first but then gradually harder and faster. Her back arched, pressing her breasts into his chest. She felt the tension at her center coiling tighter and tighter with each thrust, with each rhythmic brush of his hard body against her swollen bud, until it felt like she was desperately straining for the release.

Her lips parted on a broken sob as the tension finally burst, her body convulsing beneath him, her cunt squeezing him so tight it was all he could do to hold back his own release. She was so beautiful, eyes slammed shut, her mouth swollen from his kisses, her perfectly round breasts with their pink nipples arching up, her ivory skin flushed with arousal. He thrust down against her hard, gripping her hips, grinding his cock deep inside, wanting her pleasure to last as long as possible. He watched the mindless wonder in her face as her body clenched around him. Satisfaction surged through his veins, knowing he had given her something no one ever had before.  

Soon she was coming down off her high and breathing hard, staring up at him with heavy lids. All he could see in her face was bliss as she smiled up at him. He leaned over, pressing his mouth to hers. Breaking the kiss, he gazed down. He saw the gentle swell of her belly, taut with desire as he filled her, and the fine thatch of fire-kissed hair that veiled her soft center merge with his darker curls. The scent of her surrounded him, heady, powerful, and sweet. He stared at where they were joined, and a growl ripped from his chest as he watched his thick shaft sink inside her. The sight of himself, thick and heavy and slick with her sweet juices, sliding again and again into her tight heat, made his cock so hard he thought his skin was going to burst into flames.

He pumped his hips in hard, deep strokes. He felt his release radiate at the base of his spine, streaks of pleasure rushing out from his center. Sansa’s arms wrapped tightly around him, and she whispered “I love you, Jon” in his ear. At the sound of those words, his own ecstasy ripped through him with such intensity that he thought he might black out. His release came in a long, guttural moan, the heavy spurts of his hot seed filling her womb.

He collapsed on top of her, barely managing to turn them both to lie on their sides so that he wouldn’t crush her. He wrapped his arm around her waist, hugging her to him as he pressed his brow to hers. Her hands went to his hair, running her fingers through his black curls. For several minutes, their feelings were so overpowered with the warmth of their affections and the lingering heady fog of their pleasure that neither of them could speak, until tears came to their relief.

But it wasn’t long before their desire overtook them again. She was enthusiastic over their lovemaking, teasing, caressing, stroking his passion until he’d become too crazed with lust again to think straight. She brought him to completion three times in as many hours, crying out in ecstasy as he’d pumped his seed into her, the stone walls of his bedchambers keeping their love a secret.

Well past midnight, sounds from the feast in the great hall continuing to drift up the tower, they held onto each other tenderly, feeling good and satisfied. But it wasn’t long before Jon began to feel swamped with guilt. “Please don’t despise me,” he said imploringly. Sansa shook her head, tears filling her eyes, and raised her hand to caress his face. “You are the best man I have ever known,” she whispered. “You are mine and I am yours and we are one. Nothing _will ever_ change that. No matter what happens.”

*****

Once he’d drifted to sleep, she quietly slid out of his four-poster featherbed and slipped on her shift, gathering her discarded smallclothes. As she stood in front of the door to his chambers, unlocking it, she gazed at him peacefully sleeping. She knew come morning he would once again put on the visage of the King in the North, carrying the weight of the world upon his shoulders, his head bowed under the weight of a crown he did not wear. She knew come morning he would do his duty.

Grasping hold of the latch, Sansa quietly opened the door and stepped out into the empty, torch-lit hallway. The sounds from the great hall instantly became louder. With one last lingering look on the man she loved, she bid a silent goodbye, and closed the door. Once inside the bridal chambers, she stood in front of the tall, shuttered window, looking out over the river. Jaime Lannister’s words came back to her, of what he’d told her of his love for Cersei during the dance they’d shared.  

Was her love for her own brother no less fierce, no less passionate and consuming? Did it not also have the potential to cause untold suffering? She turned and stared at the open wardrobe against the wall. The gift from Daenerys Targaryen, her future sister by law, still hung there among the dresses she herself had made, next to the one of grey-green wool with the white direwolf embroidered over the heart. Her decision final, Sansa then walked over to the wardrobe and reached for the dress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate writing smut. It's the most tedious fucking thing ever. So if you also hate reading it, I can almost guarantee that it won't appear again in this story. If you love reading it, I'm sorry for only including it in one chapter. But there you have it.


	20. King Of The Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He would see this country burn if he could be king of the ashes." ~ Varys, Game of Thrones, S3E4

Donning the black and white cloak, fastening his silver mockingbird pin, he slid a hand into his cloak to touch the oilskin pouch snug deep in its pocket. Inside were the letters from the Citadel that he had intercepted shortly after King Tommen’s death and Cersei’s coronation. Some maesters were too curious and too bold for their own good. If those letters had arrived in the hands of the intended recipients, it could have been disastrous. But it did not matter. His trusted spies had made sure that he had received them instead, and those maesters had been subsequently dealt with.

Raising the entrance flap of his large tent, he then stepped outside. He was immediately greeted by the bright morning sunshine and four knights who were standing guard in the space between his tent and the one directly across, currently housing the young Lord Robin. He glanced up at the banners above the tents, the House Arryn sigil of a sky-blue falcon soaring against a white moon on a field of sky-blue. Soon those banners would change. Soon the mockingbird would soar.

He was allowed admittance into the east castle and then was soon striding across the bridge over the green waters of the river toward the west castle on the opposite bank. The gate rose and allowed him entrance. Approaching the Unsullied guards standing outside the large doors to the council chambers near the castle’s great hall, he requested permission to speak to the queen. He was brought back a message that she was breakfasting and would not be accepting audiences until later on in the day.

“It is a matter of utmost urgency,” he told them.

The two guards exchanged serious glances, before one of them disappeared inside the chambers again. When he returned, he held the door open. “You may enter.”

Stepping inside the council chambers, the heavy oak door shutting behind him, he was greeted with the sight of Daenerys Targaryen, Olenna Tyrell, and Ellaria Sand sitting together at the large table in the middle of the room. A crackling fire in the stone hearth filled the chambers with its warmth. Platters of smoked ham, eggs, fruits, and breads donned the table top.

“Are you hungry, Lord Baelish?” Dany asked. Lady Olenna gave a slight smirk as she cracked the shell of boiled egg. Ellaria took a bite out of a pear. All three had their eyes on him.

“No, Your Grace,” he answered with a bow. “I had my own breakfast not an hour ago.”

Wearing a gown of snowy white silk, she took a sip from her cup, a luxuriously sweet red wine from Dorne with hints of cherries and plums and rich, dark oak. Setting the cup down, she fixed a penetrating gaze on him. She wondered if he was about to complain of the change in plans for Sansa Stark, and ask her to put a stop to the upcoming wedding to Jaime Lannister at Riverrun. “You bring me important news?”

His face was a mask of emotion, but his heart pounded beneath his ribs. He had held onto this information for over twenty years, biding his time in case he ever had to use it. Almost smiling to himself over his brilliance, he put on a sobered expression of severity and began to speak. “Yes, Your Grace. It concerns Sansa Stark.”

“Of course it does,” Dany replied. Olenna and Ellaria exchanged amused glances.

Anger flooded his gut like molten silver. They thought him a fool. They were the fools who had underestimated the power he held in his hands – the power of information. Olenna Tyrell certainly should’ve known better. “Two days hence, following the great council meeting tomorrow, Jon Snow means to return with her to Winterfell, where he will marry her beneath the weirwood tree in the godswood. The marriage to Jaime Lannister will not happen.”

Dany’s face hardened, her eyes blazed. Ellaria scoffed. “He is betrothed to the queen,” she said.

Olenna rolled her eyes. “Lord Baelish, Jon Snow cannot marry his sister. The marriage would not stand anywhere in Westeros, by the old gods or the new.”

“You’re right, my lady. Jon Snow cannot marry his sister. But he _can_ marry his cousin.” He kept his eyes locked on the violet-blue ones belonging to the queen, and gave her a knowing look.

The three women stared at him, not speaking. The wheels in Dany’s mind began to turn.

Littlefinger took a step closer to the table, and began to spin his tale. “Twenty-two years ago, Ned Stark left Winterfell to fight in Robert’s Rebellion. Near the end of the war, Ned Stark and Robert the Usurper learned of where your brother, Rhaegar Prince of Dragonstone, had kept Lyanna Stark hidden. But being too weak from his injuries in the Battle of the Trident, the Usurper could not go after her. Ned then rode to Dorne to rescue his sister and bring her home. A year after leaving, Ned Stark returned home to Winterfell but Lyanna was not with him, only her bones to be put down in the crypts. But there was someone else he brought home to Winterfell instead.”

“Oh, gods…” Olenna Tyrell’s eyes widened. Dany’s stomach bottomed out.

“Yes,” said Littlefinger. “The respectable Lord Eddard Stark, worshipper of honor and duty, honesty and virtue, was apparently a frequenter of brothels, bedder of whores and tavern wenches. Did anyone truly believe that? But they all turned a blind eye to the obvious truth and kept silent about the bastard babe who had come home with him. There was no real proof of his identity, after all, other than Ned Stark’s good word. And yet a boy bearing an uncanny resemblance to Lyanna Stark grew up right in front of them.”

Blood boiling and breathing heavily, Dany shook her head incredulously. “It’s not true. Jon Snow is Ned Stark’s bastard. You said it yourself, there’s no proof otherwise.” But an image suddenly rushed forward, of herself and Jon Snow in that clearing, of his hand reaching out to stroke Rhaegal. Her stomach knotted fiercely.

He gave a slight tilt of his head and pursed his lips. “Yes, Your Grace, there _was_ no proof… then.”

The queen’s eyes widened, her heart hammering in her chest. Her voice was deadly. “What proof?”

“Shortly after the arrival of House Stark and their lords bannermen and soldiers to the Twins, ravens started arriving from the Citadel,” he replied. “These letters revealed that with the great council soon approaching, some maesters working outside the Conclave’s authority took it upon themselves to start looking into the events surrounding Robert’s Rebellion. Apparently some information was found concerning Rhaegar Targaryen’s movements at that time and individuals he had employed in Dorne to watch over a pregnant Lyanna Stark, including maesters of House Fowler who were sent from the castle Skyreach to look over her when she fell sick. They had recorded what they did to care for her. At some point in time the maesters’ records were sent from Skyreach to the Citadel in Old Town.”

“Why would any of the Dornish lords send aid at Prince Rhaegar’s behest when he had abandoned his marriage to Elia Martell and ran off with Lyanna Stark?” scoffed Ellaria.

He nodded. His mouth was a thin smile. “They weren’t requested by Rhaegar. He was away at war, fighting against the rebellion. The maesters had been requested by Ser Arthur Dayne.”

Dany let out a shaky breath. “Of my brother’s Kingsguard?” She’d always loved to hear the stories Viserys would tell of the valiant and true knight called the Sword of the Morning, who had a wondrous white blade of Valyrian steel called Dawn. The only person in the Seven Kingdoms who could ever defeat him in the jousting tourneys was Rhaegar himself.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he replied. “The most chivalrous warrior in all of Westeros, honorable member of the Kingsguard, and most loyal friend to Prince Rhaegar, had been left behind in Dorne to guard Lyanna when your brother went off to war. He was killed by Ned Stark when he’d arrived to rescue his sister.”

“Everyone knows the story of how Ned Stark of Winterfell defeated the famous Ser Arthur Dayne,” said Olenna. “It was hard to believe. It certainly added to the reputation of the northmen. No southron knight ever truly wants to face them in battle, and they’ve been proven unsuccessful when they do. It’s no wonder Tywin Lannister had to concoct that traitorous plot with Roose Bolton and that weasel Walder Frey just to bring down Robb Stark.”

He could’ve offered a genuine smile at Lady Olenna for delivering such a perfect choice of words, but he turned a sober face on the queen. “Another traitorous plot is being concocted right now, as we speak.”

Dany’s mouth went dry and she swallowed. “What do you know?”

Littlefinger briefly paused, carefully considering all he was about to say. “Tomorrow afternoon, when the great council commences, the lords bannermen of the North, Edmure Tully and his lords bannermen of the Riverlands, and Jaime Lannister and his lords bannermen of the Westerlands are going to stand with the evidence they’ve received from the Citadel and proclaim Jon Snow to be the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Slowly standing from her chair, eyes widening and face reddening, Dany clenched her hands into fists. “No.”

“Your own claim will be rejected and you will be promptly seized…” He locked his eyes on hers. “And then Jon Snow will take your dragons.”

“No!” She shook with anger, her chest heaving as the fire within her threatened to burn out of control. “They are _my_ dragons! He cannot have them! I am their mother!”

Olenna looked at Daenerys nervously, before fixing narrowed eyes and a questioning gaze at Littlefinger, leaning forward in her chair. “How do you know all this?”

He smirked. “As Lord Varys would say, spies are more useful than gold.”

Ellaria also glanced uneasily at the Targaryen girl before speaking. “But we were under the impression that Jon Snow does not care for politics, Lord Baelish. He doesn’t care about the Iron Throne and just wants to go home to Winterfell. That doesn’t strike me as ambitious. And what about this famed Stark honor of his? To seize the queen and take her dragons…”

“True enough,” said Littlefinger. “He has no real interest in the throne. He simply wanted to remain in Winterfell and to save the realm from the Others, which is an honorable enough desire. But the proposed alliances forced his hand. He knows that he needs the dragons to save his beloved North, but he will not marry the queen. So he plots to remove Her Grace and take the Iron Throne for himself. Very unlike his nature, this is true, but he will not allow Sansa Stark to be married to anyone else.” He smirked, a knowing glint in his eye. “The things men do for love. It breeds jealousy, greed, and pride in their hearts.”

Rage flooded Dany’s stomach like molten gold. “He is a _bastard!_ I am the _trueborn_ daughter of King Aerys! _I_ am the _last_ dragon!” Breathing heavily, her jaw clenching, her eyes widened and then she roared, “I WILL NOT TOLERATE A USURPER!”

Beginning to realize that a furious Targaryen could quickly become difficult to control, he raised his palms in an attempt to reassure her. “Your Grace, this plot will not succeed. You can remove Jon Snow before the great council comes together. He is not heavily guarded and appears to trust those around him in the east castle, even those not from the North. Your trusted Unsullied soldiers would make easy work of it. Sansa Stark remains ignorant of her brother’s… I’m sorry, shall I say _cousin’s_ … feelings toward her. She knows nothing of this scheme, and would never approve of its folly. She told me that she was quite honored with your gift to her and looked forward to the day when she could call you her sister. She herself was quite angered with the bastard's rise as King in the North. It was a title she herself deserved as Ned Stark's trueborn daughter. With the Bastard Usurper removed, she’ll remain the key to the North. Allow her to return to my protection. House Arryn will break camp and we will take her with us back to the Vale. There she will wed Lord Robin. She’ll inherit the North and pledge absolute loyalty to you.”

Dany’s eyes blazed, clenching her jaw. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Olenna Tyrell’s pointed look in her direction. She took a deep breath, and then sat back down in her seat. “Very well, Lord Baelish. I give you leave to break camp two days hence and take Sansa Stark with you. Instead of riding to Riverrun, she will ride to the Vale and wed Robin Arryn. When everyone gathers in the great hall tomorrow, they’ll wish they’d never turned against me. We’ll see how much Jon Snow’s tears and empty promises of fealty can quench dragonfire.”

With a nod and a bow, Petyr Baelish walked out of the council chambers. As the doors closed behind him, he smiled, and walked determinedly towards the gate to the bridge crossing. Chaos was his favorite ladder to climb.

*****

When the door closed behind Littlefinger, Olenna Tyrell turned to the queen and pursed her lips. “If Sansa Stark is ignorant of Jon Snow’s feelings, then I’m a mummer’s fart. I saw what was happening there at the feast. I dare say she feels the same, and I’d also wager that this has been going on for quite some time.”

“But according to Lord Baelish, they didn’t learn they were cousins until after they arrived here at the Twins,” Ellaria replied with a tone of disbelief. “Jon Snow and Sansa Stark in an incestuous union? They aren’t the Lannisters.”

“Well, the Targaryens _are_ predisposed to sisterfucking,” quipped Olenna. “It’s in their blood.”

Dany stared at her, quietly seething. “But what of this plot Lord Baelish has uncovered?” asked the queen. “Is Sansa Stark ignorant of it?”

Olenna shrugged. “Littlefinger swears fealty to no one but himself and he keeps his own counsel. But he’s had his claws in Sansa Stark for years. He’s always taken a keen interest in her and her fate. He’s had ample time to teach her his cunning ways. He has plans for her, I can tell you that. Allowing her to go to the Vale is a mistake. She could already have Jon Snow’s child in her belly, and then Littlefinger would _really_ control the fate of the realm. He’d have the heir to the North _and_ the heir to the Iron Throne in his web. It’s a genius power play, if that’s the case. I rather admire the ruthlessness of it.”

“But is he telling the truth about this scheme?” Dany asked, trying to ignore her comments about Sansa Stark’s possible pregnancy.

“Those are some strong accusations he’s made against the lords bannermen,” Olenna replied. “I can’t see him lying about the existence of these letters sent by the Citadel. It’s a lie that can easily be disproved at the council meeting with a few simple questions and he knows what would happen to him for speaking falsely to Your Grace. It’s quite possible that after House Stark’s arrival at the Twins, they did receive ravens from Old Town. It’s possible there is actual proof that Jon Snow is the bastard son of Prince Rhaegar.”

“Your Grace, do _you_ think that he is a Targaryen?” asked Ellaria, raising her eyebrows questioningly.

She hesitated, not wanting to admit it, but the way Rhaegal had reacted to him haunted her thoughts. He had only reached out to touch the dragon _after_ Rhaegal had inched closer to him of his own volition. It was _Rhaegal_ who came forward, it was _Rhaegal_ who initiated the connection. But Jon Snow did not appear to be a liar. He was brooding and distant, and clearly disliked her, but she never heard dishonesty in his words or saw it in his eyes. When he spoke, he spoke truthfully. It was Jon Snow who was ignorant of this plot. It was Jon Snow who knew nothing.

She wondered if Lord Baelish had not discovered this plot concerning him, whether he would’ve been just as shocked as her about his true identity when the information came forward at the great council. Was he truly Rhaegar’s son? He very well could be. She had thought she was the only Targaryen left in the world. She suddenly didn’t feel so alone. But his relationship with Sansa Stark… And what does Lord Baelish want with her?

“Your silence speaks volumes, Your Grace,” said Olenna, standing up from her seat. “So you’ll be bringing your dragons to the great council tomorrow? I think I’ll remain outside in the Tyrell camp until the meeting is over. Seems safer.” After bowing and paying her respects, the Lady Dowager of Highgarden departed the chambers.

“What would Lord Tyrion have to say?” asked Ellaria after moments of silence had filled the council chambers. “Should we send for him, Your Grace?”

“Lord Tyrion would support rule through alliances,” she finally answered after a long pause. “And he’s not wrong. But it was foolish to strike alliances with the Usurper’s dogs, Houses Lannister and Stark. House Baratheon is extinct. The Lannisters and Starks must follow the same course.”

“But to kill Jon Snow would send the realm into another war, Your Grace,” Ellaria said. “And we still have to remove Cersei.”

Dany licked her lips, and sighed, nodding. “Jon Snow is not a true Stark. He’s a Targaryen. The lords bannermen of Houses Stark and Lannister are my enemies, and they must be destroyed. Jaime Lannister, Sansa Stark, and Arya Stark must be dealt with. And we should never deal with our enemies with declarations and alliances, but with a sword.”

Running a hand through her black hair, Ellaria shook her head. “Your Grace, what of Lord Tyrion? It’s possible that he knows of this plot. He pushed the marriage contract between Sansa Stark and his brother, and didn’t mind that Jaime would be surrendering the Lannister name for Sansa Stark’s benefit. It’s plain that he has a soft spot for her and Jon Snow, not to mention how highly he speaks of his brother.”

“No,” she replied without hesitation. “Tyrion knows nothing of this. He may be a Lannister, but he is my Hand and I trust him. He would not support a plot to harm me, and would actively work against it.” She knew her Hand cared for her, not just as a queen but the woman she was. She'd never given him a reason to turn on her. Dany's stomach knotted. She didn't want to either. But he'd never agree to the ruination of House Stark, and this was necessary.

“But killing Jon Snow’s sisters… or cousins, whatever they are, will not endear him to you, Your Grace. Neither would killing his brother. And who would support you? Certainly not the North. Not the Riverlands. Not the Westerlands. Not the Vale. You will always have the support of Dorne against the usurpers who sacked King’s Landing and murdered Elia Martell and her children. But the Dornish lords would not dare start a war with the North.

“You can send your Unsullied army into the east castle and strike them all down, or send your dragons into the camps of your enemies, but how will killing the brother of your Hand and the heirs to House Stark ensure the loyalty of the Seven Kingdoms? How would that prevent the people from rising up against you in retaliation? They’d only blame you for the bloodshed and seek to remove you from power, especially Jon Snow who has somewhat of a claim. And the people have already shown that they don’t mind allowing a bastard to rise to power.” She sighed. “But you have dragons, Your Grace, and so they probably won’t rise up against you. They’d hate you, but they’d be too frightened to challenge your rule as long as your dragons remained.”

Dany knew she was right. Her destiny was to rule. When Aegon the Conqueror arrived in Westeros from Valyria, the kings of the Seven Kingdoms did not rush to throw down their crowns and accept his sovereignty. If she meant to sit on his Iron Throne, she’d have to win it just as he had done, with swords and dragons. She would have to have blood on her hands before the thing was won. The words of House Targaryen were fire and blood. It was only fitting.

But was she destined to sit the throne as her father did? With madness and cruelty in an effort to enforce her rule? She’d just foster a realm of hatred and resentment, and a usurper would be sure to rise up. She would have to do as Rhaegar had done, when he left Dorne and rode to the Riverlands to attack the Usurper’s rebel forces. He had ridden on a horse, with his Valyrian steel blade in his hand. Rhaegar had fought valiantly, nobly, and honorably. But he had died. Died in the waters of the Trident for the woman he loved. But _she_ would not die. For she would not be riding a horse. _She_ had dragons. She would set the Trident ablaze, and any usurpers would melt away like the morning dew.

She folded her hands and stared down at the table, confused and unsure as what to do. Once Jon Snow became aware of who he truly was, if he wasn’t already, nothing would prevent him from marrying Sansa Stark. Nothing would prevent him from doing everything Lord Baelish had said they were planning to do. The northmen and lords of the Riverlands and Westerlands could seize her and strike her down. Her dragons’ loyalties could then shift to the only Targaryen left to them – Rhaegar’s bastard. He’d go back to Winterfell with her dragons, maybe even take them north of the Wall to meet the Others in the Battle for the Dawn. He’d save the realm and take the Iron Throne for himself. He’d be loved until the end of his days. There would be never be a usurper, a rebellion.

Dany knew what Tyrion would say to all this. He would not encourage winning the throne through steel and dragonfire. He would not encourage bloodshed. She didn’t mind shedding the blood of her enemies. The blood of the innocent was another matter. If she condemned the lords of the Great Houses to dragonfire, how would that ensure the people’s devotion to her? Their love and loyalty? They’d think her a tyrant, mad like her insane father, vicious and cruel. But anyone she had ever met who had also known the family she’d lost, often told her that she reminded them more of her brother Rhaegar, and not her father. Viserys had been like their father – cruel and weak and frightened. She would not be like them.

Her enemies had to be removed. But she could not allow herself to be blamed and hated for her pragmatism. House Stark must go the same way as House Baratheon. Burning them all with her dragons was not an option. Sending in her Unsullied and what remained to her of the Dothraki horde was not an option. “What if House Stark could be destroyed without anyone holding me responsible?” she asked Ellaria.

“Who would the people hold responsible, if not you for? Especially if you involve your dragons and your armies. There would be no one else _to_ blame. You cannot destroy House Stark _and_ win the love and loyalty of the Seven Kingdoms. Certainly not the love and loyalty of Jon Snow, even if he is a Targaryen. There now isn’t a kingdom in the realm that would attack the Starks, Your Grace.”

She sat in silence, thinking. Her expression softened with dawning realization and then she reached to ring the bell that was placed near where she sat. An Unsullied guard who stood at the doors then turned and walked out of the large room. Several minutes later, Missandei and Grey Worm entered the council chambers.

Missandei approached the table. “Yes, Your Grace?”

Dany fixed her with a steady gaze. “Fetch me Yara Greyjoy.”


	21. A Bolt In The Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Money buys a man's silence for a time. A bolt in the heart buys it forever." ~ Petyr Baelish, Game of Thrones, S4E3

As the cold grey light of morning crept across the lord’s chambers, Jon Snow stirred, and his eyes fluttered open. A smile spread across his face and he turned, reaching his hand across the mattress. But there was no one there. She was gone. His heart sunk into his stomach like a stone weight, the blissful peace he’d felt upon awakening quickly leaving him. Guilt immediately filled his soul and drained his spirit. His mind flooded with everything that lay in front of him and his sisters – the great council, alliances, marriages, and separations. None of it felt right. But other images also began swimming in front of his eyes, and he saw Sansa naked, moaning, under his hands, under his mouth, under his body, burying himself inside her.

Taking a deep breath, trying hard to control his thoughts, he slid off the large featherbed. He looked around the room. There was no sign she had ever been there. He might’ve been inclined to think it had all been a dream, if it hadn’t been for the fact that he could still smell her on his skin. His guards would smell it too, he had no doubt. He walked into the bath that flanked his bedchamber, filled a basin with the flagon of cool water that sat beside it, and began to wash. Once he was clean, he put on a clean set of black wool breeches, donned a grey-blue linen tunic and a brown sleeveless leather jerkin, and then pulled on his pair of well-worn boots.

Hearing a door open in the hallway outside, he rushed to his door, throwing it open. But it wasn’t Sansa he saw. He found himself looking down the hall at Arya, who had frozen in her bedchamber’s doorway with her hand on the latch. He hadn’t heard her walk by his own chambers, and his gaze moved past her down towards the other end of the long hallway.

“Did you go down to the kitchens again?” he asked her. “I thought I told you we would have breakfast together. It should be coming up shortly.”

She hated going through the main gate to the castle. The guards were not Stark guards, they belonged to the river lords, and she didn’t care for their sniggering and their comments about putting on a dress instead or what lay beneath her breeches. _“Show us your cock,”_ they’d said one time, laughing at her. She’d pulled out Needle instead, demanding they show her theirs. It was easier to just follow the river bank around to the other side of the castle and then leap to the ledge outside the broken kitchen door. No one had caught her yet.

Arya rolled her eyes at her brother. “I didn’t really eat anything. I still want some breakfast.”

“All right, well wash up and then come join me,” he replied. She nodded and made to step inside her chamber. He took a step forward. “Arya, have you seen Sansa at all this morning?”

“No.” She’d just come in from the Stark camp. She hadn’t seen anyone yet. “She’s probably still asleep. She hates getting up in the morning.”

Jon nodded, and watched his sister disappear behind her door. That had been the old Sansa, the young girl who hated getting dragged out of bed. She was like that no longer. He turned his attention to the three guards who stood there in the hallway, Bill Liddle, Luke Norrey, and Owen Wull. They looked haggard. He smirked at them. “You boys look a little worse for wear. Enjoy yourselves at the feast last night?”

They groaned. “I drank enough of that good dark beer to fill a horse,” Bill replied.

“Did you enjoy yourself last night, Your Grace?” asked Owen.

His stomach clenched. After clearing his throat, he nodded. “It was, uh… eventful.”

Luke chewed on his lower lip, hesitating. “Um, Your Grace, are you really going to marry the dragon queen?”

“A man must do his duty,” he said, but he had never thought doing his duty would ever be this difficult. “The winter storm is coming, brothers, and an army of the dead along with it. I will do what needs to be done, even if that means brokering an alliance with a Targaryen and her dragons. It’s a means to an end.”

They sighed, nodding their heads in acceptance. He then turned and stared at the bridal chambers. “Have you boys seen Lady Stark this morning?”

Shaking their heads, they told him they hadn’t, that she hadn’t come out of her room yet. Jon took a few steps forward, bringing himself to her door. He raised his hand and knocked. There was no answer. He sighed, closing his eyes. “Sansa,” he spoke to the door. There was still no answer. He knew she was in there, and he knew she had to have been awake right now. He grasped her door latch. It was locked. He sighed again. “Listen, uh… Sansa, I’m sorry about last night. I’m sorry about the marriage contracts. I’m sorry about Daenerys, and Jaime Lannister. I’m sorry this had to happen at all.” He swallowed, leaning closer to the door, aware that the eyes of the three guards were on him. “I’m sorry about everything else that happened. Or… well, honestly, I’m not sorry. I’m not. Just please open the door, Sansa.”

The door remained closed. He shut his eyes, his heart filling with a dull sense of sorrow. He turned around and looked at his guards. “When Lady Stark comes out of her chambers, please let me know.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

As he laid his hand on the door latch to the lord’s chambers, suddenly voices could be heard down the spiral steps, coming up from the landing to the fourth floor of the tower below.

“It is a matter of utmost urgency!”

“Then tell me what important business you have with the King in the North at this early hour. And coming up to the family chambers? Before they’ve even breakfasted? I think not. That’s mighty bold of you, milord. I won’t let you pass until you let it be known what your business is here.”

“Well, I’m not going to tell _you!”_

Jon walked over to the fifth floor landing and leaned down toward the stairs. “It’s all right, Errold. Let him up.” In a matter of moments, he was staring at Petyr Baelish, in his black and white cloak fastened with the silver mockingbird pin.

Littlefinger bowed. “Your Grace.”

“Lord Baelish. What do you want with me? I heard you say it was urgent.”

“If we could speak privately, Your Grace. I have some sensitive information that greatly concerns you.”

With a silent nod of his head, he walked over to his chambers, Littlefinger following him. But his guards whispered caution and asked him to keep the door open.

Baelish smirked, and placed a hand on Bill Liddle’s shoulder. “You lads serve your king well, and you should be proud. But I can tell you that I am unarmed. And if I’m not mistaken, Longclaw lies just beyond that door and your king is an excellent swordsman. Who could stop him from striking me down if he willed it? Can he not defend himself? I should say so, and certainly against an unarmed man.”

“It’s fine, Bill,” said Jon. “He just wants to talk.” He then turned a cold look on Littlefinger. “Longclaw _does_ lie within that room. And I _can_ defend myself.”

“Only a fool would forget that fact, Your Grace. Your skills with a sword are quickly becoming legendary.”

He stared at him, blinking at the false praise, and then turned to enter his room. Baelish then followed the King in the North into the lord’s chambers, a hint of a self-satisfied grin briefly spreading across his face.

Jon sat down at his desk, turning the chair to face his visitor. “Now, what do you want to tell me?”

Littlefinger strode over to the wall, picked up the wooden chair which sat next to the wardrobe, and walked back, seating himself across from the young king. “Late last night, two ravens arrived from the Citadel in Old Town. One was sent to Tyrion Lannister, Hand of Daenerys Targaryen, and the other to myself. No doubt you might wonder why the raven was sent to me and not to Your Grace. The maesters at the Citadel are forever cautious about information that may fall into the hands of the enemies of House Stark. Ravens that are intended to reach your hands could be easily shot down, the letters they carry intercepted. Especially now that you are in the Riverlands. The maesters know that I am a most loyal servant of Sansa Stark, that I have aided in her protection, and that your house has my full and unswerving allegiance. The ravens that arrived last night each carried the same letter and copies of the same documents.”

“What do they say?”

Pulling the oilskin pouch from within his cloak, he removed said letter and documents, holding them in his hand. He began explaining. “Each year, the maesters of Westeros send reports to the Citadel of the various works they’ve performed over the previous year. Some reports are of medicines they used to cure this sickness or that sickness, and other scientific discoveries. Some reports contain scholarly findings. Some reports contain all their dealings with the lords of the houses they serve, to ensure the Conclave that they are fulfilling their duties as maesters to the best of their abilities. Most of these scrolls are briefly glanced over, bound together into books, and then left on shelves for years, ignored and forgotten. Especially reports from houses that have little dealings with the Citadel or King’s Landing. House Fowler in Dorne, for instance. Do you know of it?”

Trying to remember all that Maester Luwin had taught him as a boy about the history of the Seven Kingdoms, Jon vaguely recalled House Fowler. “The Fowlers were of the First Men, and among one of the most powerful of the old Dornish kings. They called themselves the Kings of Stone and Sky. They guarded the mountain pass between Dorne and the Reach called the Wide Way.”

“Yes, well, the Kingdoms of the First Men were a very long time ago,” said Baelish. “Are you familiar with House Fowler in more recent history, say about twenty-one years ago?”

“No.”

The Lord Protector of the Vale nodded. “You are about twenty-one years of age, are you not?”

The wheels in Jon’s mind began to turn, and he wondered what Littlefinger was getting at. “Aye, I am.”

“This document contains a report from a maester serving House Fowler in their seat at the castle Skyreach in Dorne,” he replied, handing over one of the scrolls. “The report is dated twenty-one years ago.”

He took it from him and stared down at it. An indescribable sinking feeling began to grow inside of him, a feeling Jon couldn’t explain. “What does it say?”

Baelish fixed a steady gaze. “This maester who served House Fowler was sent to the Tower of Joy after Ser Arthur Dayne of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen’s Kingsguard had requested a healer. When the maester arrived, he found a girl no older than sixteen years who was heavy with child. The maester describes her as a rather beautiful girl with dark hair and brown eyes. She was very sick with fever, and his notes mention that Arthur Dayne was quite distressed over it. The maester’s notes also mention that the girl refused to tell him her name, and that she spoke the Common Tongue with a strange accent foreign to Dorne.”

His chest tightening and his guts twisting, Jon unrolled the document and began to read for himself. The report was very detailed, and everything Littlefinger had said was true. The maester described meeting Ser Arthur Dayne at the Tower of Joy, of finding the pregnant girl in bed and being tended to by a young Dornish maiden. The maester wrote that Dayne was “in a state of distress over the fate of mother and babe, and kept repeating, ‘They have to live. The child has to live.’” The maester then administered potions and herbs and a lot of fresh, cold drinking water. By morning the fever passed, and he declared both mother and child to be on the mend. He described Dayne as being “near tears with relief.” The report was then signed at the bottom of the scroll by one Maester Cletus.

Jon looked up at Littlefinger, his stomach knotting fiercely, his hands shaking. “Who was the girl?”

“I think you know, Your Grace.” He then lifted the second scroll. “This is the letter from the Citadel that arrived with that document, confirming what the record implies by what is known from history. At the end of Robert’s Rebellion, with both King Aerys and Prince Rhaegar dead, Lord Eddard Stark and six of his companions arrived at the Tower of Joy. They found it guarded by three members of the Kingsguard, including Ser Arthur Dayne. A battle ensued, and the only two to survive were Lord Eddard Stark and his friend Howland Reed of the Neck. After the fight, Lord Eddard Stark found the dead body of his sister inside the tower. He then had the tower torn down to build eight cairns for the deceased. He then returned to Winterfell some months later with an infant whom he claimed was his bastard son.”

As Jon reached for the letter, taking it from Littlefinger’s outstretched palm, realization dawned on him and his face paled, his mouth dropping open. His eyes burned and his guts twisted into a knot so tight he thought he might be sick. His hands were cold and they seemed to belong to someone else as he opened the scroll. His thoughts filled with memories of his childhood, of his father’s loving care and guidance. Was it all a lie? His heart was collapsing under the weight of what Lord Baelish was saying.

The letter confirmed everything Littlefinger had said. The maesters at the Citadel had come to a single conclusion – the pregnant girl that Maester Cletus had healed and Lyanna Stark were one and the same. While there was no concrete evidence, the child Lord Eddard Stark had brought home was most likely the child of his sister and Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone. The maesters sought to remove Cersei Lannister from the Iron Throne and replace her with the rightful heir.

“The rightful heir,” Jon repeated, his voice empty and cold.

“Yes, well, now that the _trueborn_ daughter of King Aerys has arrived in Westeros, the rightful heir to the throne is apparently now up for dispute, Your Grace. This brings me to the real reason I’ve come. As I said earlier, Daenerys Targaryen’s appointed Hand of the Queen, Tyrion Lannister, also received this same letter along with the same supporting document. The maesters at the Citadel made a huge error regarding this. The information contained in these scrolls should _never_ have been placed into the hands of Daenerys.”

He shook his head, his eyes stinging with hot tears. “I don’t _want_ the Iron Throne. She can have it.”

Baelish sighed. “I’m afraid your words of abdication will never be good enough, Your Grace.”

“What do you mean?” Jon asked.

“Well…” He adopted a somber expression, his demeanor one of sympathy. “Tomorrow afternoon at the great council meeting, Daenerys is going to be officially accepted as the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. She will then stand with the overwhelming evidence against you. She’s going to proclaim that you are not the son of Ned Stark, that you are the son of Prince Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark, a bastard born of rape. Your title, King in the North, will be stripped from you. You will be exiled back to Dorne, the place of your birth. Your name will be officially changed to Jon Sand. You will never be allowed to enter the Crownlands, or you’ll face certain death as the bastard usurper to the Iron Throne. You will never be allowed to return to the North, or you’ll face certain death as the bastard usurper to House Stark’s line. Upon Jaime Lannister’s marriage to Sansa Stark, he will be named Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. The North will be denied their independence, on the basis that they allowed a bastard usurper to rise to power over the trueborn daughter of Ned Stark.”

He stared at Lord Baelish agape. His throat tightened and his eyes burned with hot tears. He couldn’t speak.

“I can’t imagine how you must be feeling, Your Grace,” continued Littlefinger. “To know that your whole life has been a lie. And to learn that you’re a bastard born of rape to a Targaryen no less, unnatural they are, marrying sisters to brothers and breeding madness.”

A cold ball of ice filled Jon’s chest and his heart sank in dismay. Shame and indignation flooded his stomach. _Bastard born of rape._ Jon knew what that meant. He knew that phrase, and how northmen regarded children born from such a crime. Despised and shunned, for there was evil in their blood. He thought of Rhaegar Targaryen, kidnapping Lyanna Stark, trapping her in a tower, where he raped her over and over. And then she was forced to carry the unwanted child of her raper, whose birth killed her. The thought made him sick. It was all he could do not to run into the bath and retch.

Baelish reached and placed his hand on Jon’s shoulder. “You are not without hope, Your Grace. You can stop Daenerys. There’s plenty of time before the great council. You are her betrothed, and despite learning of your true identity, my carefully placed spies tell me that she’s grown somewhat fond of you and had actually anticipated your upcoming marriage with enthusiasm. Request an audience with her. She’ll never let you anywhere near the throne, but perhaps she’ll allow you to wed Lady Stark and remain in Winterfell. You can still have your heart’s desire.”

Sitting up, he looked Littlefinger in the eyes, his guts churning. _He knows._ The thought of confessing to Sansa who he truly was filled him with anguish. He could only hope she would still love him.

“But if Daenerys doesn’t allow you to have your heart’s desire, and still seeks to exile you to Dorne, then there is truly only one thing you can do.” Baelish leaned forward, his expression determined. “Strike her down. Take her dragons and take the throne for yourself. Rise up as the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, and the one true king of Westeros. Take Lady Sansa as your queen. Fly the dragons North and save the realm from the Others.”

Jon stared, speechless, blinking back his tears.


	22. The Death Of Duty

The large oak doors to the council chambers closed behind them, and as he glanced at his sister, she motioned for him not to speak. They walked silently beneath the raised iron gates and across the wooden plank bridge, stepping onto the west bank of the Green Fork. Gentle morning rain began to fall silvery around them, hitting their heavy armor. After passing the camps flying banners of Dornish houses and houses of the Reach, walking a slight distance up over a crest in the hill near the river, they arrived at a camp with tents flying sigils of a golden kraken against a black field.

Word quickly spread through the tents that the Queen of Salt and Rock was calling a council, and soon hundreds of Ironborn had gathered in the field that lay behind their camp. He walked beside his sister to stand in front of them, remaining slightly behind her. His throat tight, his stomach knotted, he struggled to control his emotions. And then his sister began to speak, her voice full of cold, determined fury.

“The time has come for the Ironborn to exact our revenge. For hundreds of years we have claimed nothing but absolute sovereignty. For hundreds of years we have defied the Iron Throne, since Aegon the Conqueror arrived with his dragons. Again and again we rebelled, and again and again we were defeated by the Targaryens and the dogs who served the throne, the Lannisters and the Starks. When we raided the coastal towns of the green lands, Lord Beron Stark gathered swords while the Lannisters built ships to defeat us. When we built the Iron Fleet and rebelled against the throne after Robert the Usurper claimed it for his own, they burned our fleet and my two eldest brothers were slain. My father Balon Greyjoy swore fealty to Robert Baratheon and gave his own son, my brother Theon, as a hostage to Lord Eddard Stark. My father was a fucking fool. Why should the kraken _ever_ bend the knee to the stag or the direwolf? Why should the dragon _ever_ desire a union with the direwolf when it can unite with the kraken? When the kraken weds the dragon, my brothers, let the world beware!”

The men shouted and raised their fists into the air. Standing slightly behind his sister, his face was a mask, hiding the storm that raged inside.

“Winter is upon us, brothers, and winter means death,” she continued. “Shall we die weeping tears that freeze upon our cheeks, forever subdued and despised by the green lands, forever defeated and our sovereignty denied? No one will sing songs for those who die weak and powerless. For many of you, this will be your last winter. You shall bathe in Stark blood before you die! You shall feel the blood of the Lannisters and Baratheons splatter across your faces as your axes bite deep into their skulls! You shall die with the taste of it on your tongues, with a smile upon your faces! And they will write songs for you, my brothers!” She grinned, her chest heaving. “Tomorrow…! We shall fight all day… and fuck all night!”

The shouting became a roar, and then her captains came forward to receive their commands. Theon kept his face a mask of stoicism, but he felt as though everything was upside down and he could only see through a distorted, disorganized vision. But through his blurred vision, a memory rose up in front of him. He suddenly remembered Robb’s face when he was told the dire news of Bran’s fall from the tower. Everyone had thought that the boy was going to die, including Robb. He remembered that Robb’s face was full of anguish, his eyes despair.

But the gods weren’t able to kill Bran. It was a strange memory, and it was even stranger to remember that Bran could possibly be alive out there somewhere. He hadn’t been able to kill him either. But Robb wasn’t alive, and neither was Rickon. Robb was murdered there at the Twins. Rickon died at the hands of Ramsay Bolton. And those boys he himself had tarred and burned and strung up in Winterfell… His head pounded, but he couldn’t push the thoughts away.

Robb was dead. Rickon was dead, and maybe even Bran. There was no way to know. In the eyes of the Seven Kingdoms, Ned Stark’s sons were all dead. The bastard lived, though. But the dragon queen had spun a tale that Jon Snow, her betrothed, did not belong to Ned Stark, that he’d been fathered by a Targaryen, her own brother. It was almost impossible to believe. Jon had been more of a Stark than the rest of Ned’s children put together, save perhaps Arya.

Yet when growing up in Winterfell, he’d heard tales of Lyanna Stark and how “wolf-blooded” she was – headstrong, willful, hot-tempered, and courageous – and that Arya was a lot like her, both in looks and character. He’d always thought that Arya had taken after Jon Snow more than her other siblings. The dragon queen’s statements were not irrefutable. He could see Jon Snow being the son of Lyanna Stark easily enough. It was the Targaryen father that did not make any sense to him, even though he knew the story of Lyanna’s kidnapping. Jon, Sansa, and Arya were all that was truly left of Ned Stark’s children, and Robb’s siblings. Once again, the painful images swam in front of his eyes, the memories he could never forget no matter how hard he tried. Robb’s face tormented his thoughts and haunted his nightmares. There were things too painful to remember, memories that tortured him more than anything he’d endured at the hands of Ramsay Bolton.

Out of the corner of his eye, Theon caught Yara’s pointed gaze in his direction, sharp and terrible. His stomach knotted even more. After she’d finished speaking to her men, she turned and stepped towards him, leading him back down the hill towards their camp.

“Are you prepared to do your duty, brother?”

“Yes.”

Yara eyed him as they walked. “And is that your duty to House Greyjoy or House Stark?”

Theon swallowed, and his heart pounded in his chest. “You know my loyalty lies with our house, and with you.”

“Good. There’s been a change in plans. Tomorrow morning when the sun rises, while our enemies in the camps across the river are just awakening to take their first piss, before they’ve even been able to lace up their boots, the Ironborn will strike.”

“But…,” His eyes widened. “Daenerys said not to act until the great council. How is defying her going to convince her to forge a marriage pact with you?”

She smirked. “The queen is young and inexperienced. There is a better strategy. Once she sees the results, she will understand. When the east castle’s gates open, and the plank bridge lowers to the bank, a garrison of our men will storm the castle and put their swords into the hearts of the Stark bannermen while another garrison enters the Water Tower and removes Jaime Lannister and the lords of the Westerlands. At the same time, my forces will slaughter everyone in the camps of Houses Stark and Baratheon.”

Catching sight of their own camp ahead, the kraken banners dancing in the wind, he shook his head. “And how are you going to get the east castle’s gates to rise to let the Ironborn inside?”

“That is where you come in,” she answered. “Tomorrow morning, you will ask to join Jon Snow and his sisters for breakfast. The guards might be hesitant to let you enter, but you’ll convince them. You’ll say that the Starks were once like family to you, and that you intend to make promises of peace between the northmen and ironmen. When the guards open the gate and lower the bridge, the garrison will be waiting. When they enter the castle, you are to run up to the chambers where the children of Ned Stark sleep. Our men will remove their guards. You’ll waken the Starks from their beds and tell them the Twins are being attacked by Cersei Lannister’s forces, and that you can lead them to safety. They know you. You’ll gain admittance into their chambers. When their backs are turned, you’ll give them the sword.”

Theon’s chest tightened, his breath caught in the back of his throat.

She smirked. “Oh, and brother, make sure you put the sword to Jon Snow first before the Stark girls, or he’s likely to kill you before you can get the job done.”

“Daenerys said Jon Snow wasn’t to be touched,” he said, eyes wide. “She said he’s a Targaryen and not her enemy.”

“I know what she said,” Yara spat as they entered her tent. “He’s still the son of a Stark. He must go the same way as the rest of the damn wolf pack.”

He shook his head incredulously. How could he kill Sansa? …Arya? Even the Bastard of Winterfell?

She grabbed his arm, forcefully turning him to face her. “Are you a Stark, or are you a Greyjoy? Are you one of the northmen, or Ironborn?”

“I am Theon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands!” he replied, anxiety clouding his features.

“The time has come for you to prove it.” Yara’s voice was ice.

He watched her turn and sit down at her table, grasping hold of a flagon of wine. Feeling half-sick with guilt and dread, Theon paled, an image of Robb Stark rising up in front of his eyes once again. The hurtful accusation etched across the face of his fallen brother corroded his heart, slicing deeper and burning hotter than even Ramsay Bolton’s flaying knife.

*****

Tyrion and Varys stepped into the council chambers, finding Dany seated at the large table in her snowy white silk gown next to Missandei. Grey Worm stood nearby. Sitting down in two empty chairs, the men joined them, and Tyrion poured himself a cup of the sweet red Dornish wine.

“Enjoy your breakfast, Your Grace? A little bird told us that you had some interesting visitors earlier this morning,” said Varys.

She shot him a hard look, and then sighed. “It was only Lord Baelish. And then Yara Greyjoy showed up with her brother. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Tyrion swallowed a sip of wine, before setting down the cup and drumming his fingers on the table. “Yes, and what did the most devious man in the Seven Kingdoms want to speak to you about?”

“He again requested to take Sansa Stark with him to the Vale,” she answered. “He was quite… unhappy about her marriage alliance with your brother, Jaime.”

Varys frowned. “Poor fellow. He’ll get over it. Or he’ll engulf the world in flames, whichever. I’m more inclined to think the latter.”

The Hand of the Queen eyed her. “Is that all he had to say, Your Grace?”

“What else would he talk about?” she non-answered. “All he talks about is Sansa Stark.”

“And did you honor his request?” asked Tyrion. “Is he going to take Lady Stark with him back to the Vale?”

Dany scoffed. “Certainly not. She’s not going anywhere with him.”

He nodded, but he had a strange feeling that she was keeping something from him. She wouldn’t meet his eyes when she spoke to him. “And what did Yara Greyjoy want? Permission for the Ironborn to begin reaving, raiding, and raping again? If there’s one thing you learned in Slaver’s Bay, at least I hope you’ve learned it, is that removing part of the foundation to a people’s entire culture and identity does not always go so well. How many times have the Ironborn rebelled against the Iron Throne? Too many to count. You’ve invited them onto the mainland. Usually they keep far away from us, even when invited. And you allowed them to sail ships from their fleet up the Trident. No doubt they’ll end up reaving, raiding, and raping all through the Riverlands. Not the best of ideas, Your Grace.”

She smirked, knowing the Ironborn’s eventual fate. “Well if they rebel, then they’ll burn.”

Her Hand sighed, visibly displeased with her words. She frowned, her guts churning with guilt and uncertainty. She wanted to do what she felt was right, what was necessary. But just the thought that Tyrion could ever be angry or disappointed in her made her stomach twist into a knot so tight it was almost like feeling sick. But she had to do what queens do. They made the difficult decisions, the hard choices when those around them would only cower to avoid conflict. Those who wanted to rule had to make sacrifices. And if those of Houses Lannister, Stark, and Baratheon were the sacrifices, along with the Ironborn, then so be it.

*****

Late in the afternoon, with a knock on the lord’s chambers door, a middle-aged servant with greying brown hair entered carrying a platter of food for Jon, Arya following behind him. Once the platter had been left on top of the small circular table, she took a seat and reached for small loaf of fresh bread. She tore it apart with her hands, tossing a warm and succulent piece into her mouth, and watched her brother sitting in the chair in front of his desk. His sat hunched over, his elbows on his knees, his face a sullen expression.

When she’d come to the chambers earlier for breakfast, he’d turned her away, claiming he felt ill. When she’d come back at noon to lunch with him, he had again turned her away without even opening the door. She’d half-expected him to throw her out when she’d walked in with the servant, but he didn’t protest her presence. He also hadn’t yet acknowledged her presence there either. “Aren’t you going to eat?” she said with a mouth full of bread. He didn’t respond. She shrugged her shoulders. “More for me.”

Jon knew he’d have to tell Arya the truth of who he really was. It was his duty to tell her, to tell Sansa, and to tell his lords bannermen as well as his guards and soldiers.

“Nymeria and Ghost still haven’t come back yet,” she said a few moments later, still chewing. “It’s my fault for letting them out. They ran off into the forest.”

“They’ll come back,” he said without looking at her. “They always do.”

She nodded, chewing, and then reached for the cup of cold milk on the platter. “I knocked on Sansa’s door to see if she wanted breakfast, but she wouldn’t answer me. Same thing happened when I knocked and asked her if she’d come lunch with us.”

He sighed. “She won’t come out of her chambers. I don’t think she wants to see me right now.”

“Well, what do you expect, Jon? You’re sending her back to the Lannisters.” Her jaw clenched, her guts burned in anger. “Can’t you stop it? You can’t let Sansa go back to them. You can’t.”

“Alliances are necessary,” he said, closing his eyes. “We must all do our duty. And she isn’t going back to them. A Lannister is coming to Winterfell.”

Arya glared at him. “Yeah. The sisterfucker. And Daenerys Stormborn, Cunty Queen of Titles is the daughter of a sisterfucker, and you’re going to marry her. Fuck Jaime Lannister. Fuck Daenerys.”

Sitting up, Jon stared at her, blinking.

She swallowed a sip of milk and then wiped her mouth with her sleeve. “What?”

“Nothing,” he sighed, dropping his gaze to the floor in front of him. “It that how they teach young ladies to speak in Braavos?”

“No, in Braavos they teach young ladies how to be assassins. And I got to be pretty good before I left.”

Jon looked over at her with an unamused expression. She giggled and then took a bite out of an apple.

As she chewed, her face fell and she sighed, before looking over at him again. “Isn’t there anything you can do to stop this from happening? Why should Sansa have to wed a Lannister? Am I really going to be sent to live in Dragonstone? Why should you have to leave Winterfell and wed the dragon queen? Nothing good happens when we separate. You can’t marry Daenerys. You have to do something. Or let me doing something. I’ll take a face and go over to the west castle and…”

“No! It’s too much of a risk, and you don’t even know what you’d be risking everything for. Or who…”

“Yes, I do. I’d do anything for you, Jon.”

He closed his eyes, sighing, and then stared at his hands. A moment later he sat up, looking over at her, studying her face. It had always been said that Arya looked a lot like Lyanna Stark, and that they shared similar personalities – bold and hotheaded, stubborn and impulsive. The only difference, he supposed, was that his sister looked upon him with pride and affection. He had no doubt that his mother had detested his very existence, from the moment her raper’s seed thickened inside her womb.

As a boy, he’d craved nothing more than for Catelyn Stark to treat him as one of her own, to love him as she did Robb. He’d often daydream about where his own mother was, whether she thought of him, hoping that she loved and missed him, wondering why his father… or the man he’d called his father… never spoke of her, why he had kept her from him. What he wouldn’t have given for a single drop of a mother’s love and kindness. Now that he knew the truth, he wished he didn’t. It was better to know nothing. Maybe…

“Do you remember any of your father’s stories about his sister Lyanna?” he asked.

She gave him a curious expression, her brows knitting together. “Our aunt Lyanna? Why should you bring her up now?”

Jon shook his head, pursing his lips. “No reason. Just came to me.”

“He said she was beautiful, and willful, and dead before her time,” Arya replied. “He said that I reminded him of her, and that I was to be careful with Needle.” She paused, trying to recall her memories from so long ago. “He once said that underneath her pretty face, she had a bravery and strength of will that was as strong as iron. She was an excellent horse rider, and the guards would tell me that I rode just like her – like one of the northmen.” She twitched her mouth, thinking. “Oh, and she loved the scent of winter roses. That’s all I can remember. But Sansa might remember more.”

Before he could reply, there was a knock on the chambers door. He stood quickly, moving with determination to answer it, hoping that it was Sansa on the other side. He so desperately needed to speak with her. His guts churned with the need to unburden his heart, and he wanted to tell her that that was no reason to feel shame, that they were free to love each other as they wanted… if she’d still have him. Grasping hold of the latch, the door swung open. His heart sank; it wasn’t Sansa standing there.

“Your Grace, your lords bannermen have requested an audience with you,” spoke Luke Norrey.

His stomach bottomed out, his chest tightened with anxiety and fear. He then turned a saddening expression on the headstrong girl he’d once believed to be his sister. “If I were to go before the lords bannermen and tell them despicable things they did not want to hear, if they looked at me with hatred in their eyes, if they sneered at me with disdain and revulsion, thought me wicked, and then they all abandoned me, what would you do? If I wasn’t the man you thought I was…”

Arya shook her head, her expression one of confusion. “I know who you are. There’s nothing that could make me hate you. You’re my brother,” she spoke softly in earnest.

“Don’t leave my chambers,” he said to her, ignoring her statements, his voice firm, as he took two steps to where Longclaw lay upright against the wall. “You’re to stay right here until I get back. Do you understand?”

“Yes. I won’t leave. I promise.” She stared at him agape as he belted the Valyrian steel sword around his waist.

Jon watched Arya’s eyes fill with worry, and then stepped out into the hallway. Commanding Norrey and Owen Wull to remain in the hallway to guard Sansa and Arya, he began descending the spiral stone steps with Bill Liddle. Minutes later he was walking into one of the east castle’s council chambers, on the ground floor near the great hall. The large oak doors opened to him, and inside his lords bannermen had gathered.

They all gazed at him with somber faces. His heart was heavy within his chest. At that moment, he realized just what it had taken for them to ride with him to the Twins. To leave the safety of the North and take shelter within the very stronghold where so many of their friends and loved ones had been killed because of the last King in the North, who had made emotional decisions that led to betrayal and bloodshed. But the bannermen of House Stark had gone with him anyway. One hundred northmen were camped outside and yet another four hundred waited for him in the Neck, to accompany him back to Winterfell. They had nothing but faith and trust in him, and he was only going to let them down. He licked his lips, and took a deep breath to steel himself. Seeing that Davos was in the room, courage filled his heart, and he decided to do his duty, and tell them the truth.

“Your Grace, the other bannermen and I have spoken at great length concerning the recent events that have unfolded here,” Lord Robett Glover said, before Jon could speak. “The very idea that you would join yourself with that foreign whore from Valyria did not sit right with us. The Targaryen dynasty deserved to die along with the Mad King, for what he did to your grandfather Lord Rickard Stark and his son Brandon, as well as that treacherous son of his, Rhaegar, for what he did to Lyanna. She was loved by all in the North and we all mourned her as if she was our own daughter. To form an alliance with the daughter of the Mad King was unthinkable.”

Unable to speak, Jon simply stared, glancing quickly at Davos, who offered him a slight smile and a confident nod. He turned back to Lord Glover, his brows creasing with a questioning look.

Lord Wyman Manderly sighed. “A Targaryen has returned to Westeros. And she has three dragons. There’s nothing we can do about those things. We can’t change the facts of the situation and we don’t have a force big enough in the Riverlands to overthrow both her army and her dragons. The majority of our men remain in the North, and there’s no way we can defy her so far from home. The only thing remaining to us is to make peace, however much it leaves a bitter taste in our mouths.”

“We’ve held faith with House Stark for a thousand years,” added Lord Harrion Karstark. “We didn’t break faith with Robb Stark when he married that foreign woman from Volantis and turned his back on a pledge of alliance with the Freys. We didn’t break faith with Robb Stark even when he executed my lord father. A good king does what he feels is the right and necessary thing to do when that will benefit his cause or his people. Your brother was young and ill-prepared for the duty thrown upon his shoulders. But we stood by his side and offered guidance whenever we could. We will not break faith with you. If a marriage pact with Daenerys Targaryen is the right thing to do, then we will stand beside you.”

“The maesters keep telling us that this is going to be the coldest winter in history,” spoke Lord Cley Cerwyn in a loud voice to his fellow bannermen. “We need a king to get us through it. And if the Others and their wights somehow find a way south of the Wall, the North will need Jon Snow. We might even need those dragons. Our sons and daughters and their children will need Jon Snow to get us through the winter. The futures of our houses depend on it. And if there’s a northman sitting on the Iron Throne, then we will be protected.”

His throat tightening, his heart pounding in his chest, Jon was unable to speak right away. He had been determined to do his duty and tell them the truth. But was his duty to tell the truth, or to do right by them? Would telling them the truth be doing right by them, or would leading them be? Was he breaking faith with them by keeping the truth about himself a secret? Would they continue to stand by him if the truth was revealed at the great council? Would they abandon him? Or keep faith? He wanted to tell them the truth, he wanted to do the dutiful thing and confess to them, but the only thing he said was, “Thank you, my lords.”

He then clasped his bannermen each on the shoulder as they filed past him and out of the council chambers, until only Davos remained. They stood together in the open doorway. Jon sighed and bowed his head.

“First the wildlings choose you to be their king, then the North chooses you, then the Riverlands choose you, and soon you’ll be king of the entire realm,” said Davos with a smile. “Not too bad for a man born a bastard, wouldn’t you say? I thought I’d be a smuggler all my life, and now I’ve got a bloody _ser_ in front of my name. Fate is a funny thing. They have a lot of faith in you, Your Grace.”

“They don’t even know who I am,” he replied with a frown. “If they knew…”

He looked at Jon appraisingly. “They know who you are. Stories of what you did beyond the Wall, defending Castle Black against Mance Rayder’s army, the dignity and stability with which you served as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch at such a young age, your death and resurrection, defeating the Boltons and Umbers in the Battle for Winterfell… these stories are spreading like wildfire. The hope of the people rests on you. No doubt the people of the Seven Kingdoms wish they could actually _choose_ their king, instead of those silly impediments like bloodlines and succession. They would certainly choose a man as goodhearted as you. And maybe we’ll find out at the great council tomorrow.”

Jon stared, swallowing, a plethora of confusing emotions storming inside.

*****

The sun set and the moon rose in a cloudless sky, the full moon, very bright and very large, and the moonlight flooded the green waters of the river and the land on both sides. Theon strode over the torch-lit crossing bridge, heading for the east castle. When he reached the gate, it was closed. Two guards immediately stepped out, staring at him from behind the thick iron bars.

“What does an Ironborn want on this side of the Crossing?” asked one guard with a thick red beard. “The great council meeting’s not ‘til the morrow.”

“I need to see the King in the North,” Theon replied. “Or Lady Stark, if I can.”

The other guard grinned, showing a mouthful of crooked brown teeth to match the brown leather cap he wore on his head. “The King in the North? You’re forgetting King of the Trident. I expect many more titles to be granted him. He’s got to compete with that Daenerys Born in a Storm, Queen of Who Gives a Shit over there in the west castle.”

He stared, unamused. “I wouldn’t go insulting the owner of three dragons, if I were you. But I’m not here to talk about her. I _need_ to see the King in the North. It’s important.”

“Fuck off, squid. And go back to your shitty little islands no one cares about.”

The guard’s partner then elbowed him. “There goes Brienne the Beauty,” he sniggered. His fellow chuckled.

Theon’s eyes widened and he took some hurried steps forward. “Lady Brienne! Lady Brienne!”

The tall, muscular, golden-haired knight with blue eyes shining with confidence stepped out of the darkness on the other side of the gate. She wore her usual armor over a leather jerkin. “Theon Greyjoy?” she said with surprise, looking him up and down. “You certainly look a lot better than the last time I saw you.”

“But I was there at the welcoming feast last night, my lady,” he replied. “I was there with my sister Yara, the Iron Queen, as well as the captains of our fleet.”

“Oh, well… I was a bit distracted,” she said. “Why are you here? Are they refusing to serve the evening meal to the Ironborn across the river?” She smirked.

He bristled. “My sister Yara has an honored place at Daenerys Targaryen’s table, my lady.”

Brienne nodded, pursing her lips. “Yes, I’m sure she does. Why do you need to enter this castle, Lord Greyjoy?”

Theon hesitated, throwing nervous glances at the guards. “I need to see Jon Snow,” he implored in a quiet voice, eyes wide. “I need to see Sansa and Arya Stark. _It’s important.”_

“Lift the gate,” she commanded the guards.

“But… but… he’s Ironborn,” said the guard with the red beard. “His scum should stay on the other side of the river. They belong inside none of the river lords’ castles.”

Brienne gave the guards a hard stare. “If you don’t raise this gate, I’ll knock your teeth out.”

The guard with the brown leather cap sneered at her. “You think I care about my bloody teeth?”

“You clearly don’t,” she replied, grimacing at the sight of his mouth. Her face then hardened once more. “Well, do you care about getting stabbed through with a sword made of Valyrian steel? Maybe you’ve never had the pleasure.”

The gate rose, and Theon stepped inside the passageway. “Are they eating in the great hall?” he asked her as they moved into the castle.

She sighed. “No. His Grace and the ladies Stark ate in their chambers. I expect after the events of the feast last night they’ve wanted to keep to themselves.” Brienne then led him to the entrance to the largest tower, and stepping into the spiral stone staircase, they started to climb. When they reached the fourth landing, they passed the guard, Errold Flint. He nodded as she went by him, but he threw a hard look at the ironman.

When they reached the top floor, they were greeted with the king’s guards. “Please tell His Grace that Theon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands wishes to speak with him,” she announced.

Turning their gaze from Brienne of Tarth to the man she mentioned, their faces hardened, their eyes narrowed, their mouths formed thin lines. Bill Liddle then turned and knocked on the door to the lord’s chambers.

Jon walked to the door, opening it. He looked at Bill, but then his gaze quickly fell upon Sansa’s sworn sword and then Theon Greyjoy. Staring, his mouth fell open. He hadn’t seen Theon since he left Winterfell for the Wall all those years ago. He knew what Theon had done, and despite helping Sansa escape Ramsay Bolton, he wasn’t sure if those things could ever be forgiven.

“I need to speak with you privately,” said the former ward of Ned Stark, his eyes pleading.

“What would Robb do if he was standing here instead?” Jon asked.

Theon paled, and he swallowed back the lump forming in his throat. “He’d cut off my head for being the traitor I am. I give you leave to deliver the same blow, but only after you hear what I have to say. I’m as good as dead for even being here anyway.”

Nodding silently, he stepped aside, holding the door open. Immediately his guards voiced disproval. He held up his hand, never taking his eyes from his unexpected visitor. “It’s all right. I’ll be fine.”

Stepping forward, Theon then abruptly turned and handed his scabbard and sword to Bill Liddle. “I won’t harm him.”

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Theon Turncloak.”

He stared at Arya Stark, standing just inside the lord’s chambers. She was much older than he’d last seen her. She was a child no longer. She also wore boy’s clothes and was holding a skinny blade in her left hand.

Jon looked at her. “Arya, leave us. Go out into the hall and stay with Brienne.”

“But…!” Her mouth fell open, her eyes widening, her brow rising. “I can’t leave you alone with him! He put Winterfell to the torch! He left it burned and broken! He betrayed us!”

He placed his hand on her shoulder and led her forward through the doorway. _“Stay_ with Brienne. Just outside here. I’ll let you back in when we’re done speaking.” He then looked up at the woman in armor as Theon entered the room. “Make sure Arya stays here in the hallway, or in her bedchamber. Don’t let her out of the castle. Oh… and Lady Brienne, see if you can get Sansa to open her door. Or at least talk to you.”

She turned a concerned glance on the door directly across from the king’s chambers. “Yes, Your Grace. I’ll do my best.”

The door to the lord’s chambers closed, and Jon found himself staring at Theon Greyjoy, of all people. He decided he wasn’t going to speak first, and waited.

Taking a deep breath, Theon began speaking. “Early tomorrow morning, when the gate opens and the plank bridge lowers to the bank just as the breakfast bell rings in the great hall, the Ironborn are going to disembark their ships from where they will have docked them before sunrise, and storm the east bank of the Green Fork. They’re going to slaughter everyone in the camps of House Stark, House Lannister, and House Baratheon before the men inside their tents have even dressed. At the same time, garrisons will storm the east castle and the Water Tower, killing all the lords bannermen inside – northmen, river lords, and westermen. I’ve been commanded to enter the castle tomorrow morning as an assassin, to remove the remaining heirs of House Stark.”

Jon shook his head incredulously, his eyes widening. He then frowned, and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He had no idea why Theon would tell him this. “I assume warning me is not part of the plan?”

Dropping his gaze, his shoulders slumped, Theon’s guts twisted. “I love my sister, but… I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing.”

“Gods be damned, you Ironborn sure know how to hold onto meaningless grudges,” he said in exasperation. “How many times do your foolish uprisings have to be squashed before you learn any common sense?" He shook his head, closing his eyes, and heaved a sigh. “The Ironborn have forged some type of alliance with Daenerys Targaryen, correct? I guess the one I’ve made with her has now become useful. I suppose we could go talk to her.” But Jon’s stomach clenched. Lord Baelish had said that she knew his true identity, she was going to break their contract, and exile him to Dorne. Why would she help him?

He looked up and met his eyes with a steady gaze. “It was the dragon queen who gave the order.”

Jon froze, his mouth falling open. He then closed his eyes, hanging his head.

“She spun some tale of how you weren’t Ned Stark’s son, that you were the son of Lyanna Stark and her brother Rhaegar. I guess she could be lying…”

“She’s not,” he admitted, his heart sinking. “I am who she says I am. I’m the bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen. Ned Stark was never my father.”

Theon looked upon Jon Snow as if seeing him for the first time. Memories rushed forward, and he remembered their childhood in Winterfell. “Ned Stark was your father just as he was mine.”

He stared back at the ironman, his throat tightening.

“Balon Greyjoy didn’t give a shit about me. He just gave me away. A real father fights for his children, risks his life for them, dies for them. Ned Stark took you home to Winterfell, didn’t he? His duty would’ve been to tell King Robert about you. Most men would’ve put the sword to you, or drowned you. But Ned Stark took you home with him and called you his son. He never once treated you as though you weren’t. He let everyone believe that he’d dishonored himself and his marriage, just to protect you. I may be Balon Greyjoy’s seed, but he was not my father. My real father died in front of the Sept of Baelor. You may be the seed of Rhaegar Targaryen, but Ned Stark was your father. There’s Stark blood in your veins. Does it matter if you have Targaryen blood? Does that mean you’re not a Stark? You’re just as much a Stark as Robb was, as Sansa, Arya, Bran, and Rickon, whose mother was a Tully.”

“But they’re trueborn children,” Jon replied, sadness etched across his face, anxiety creasing his brow. “I’m just a bastard.”

Theon furrowed his brows. “Well, the northmen clearly don’t care. They made you their king, knowing you’re a bastard.”

He closed his eyes, sighing. “Why are you saying all this? Why come and warn me? You always hated me.”

“Hate is a strong word,” he replied. He then crossed his arms, shaking his head. “I see you haven’t changed much. Being a bastard always made you so sensitive to every slight, every insult, and then you’d go sulking off into the corner whenever me and Robb were having a good time.” He rolled his eyes. “There was never much love between us, that’s true. But Robb’s face is the last thing I see before I fall asleep at night, and the first thing I see when I wake up. I can’t betray him again. I loved Robb. And I loved Ned Stark. And they loved you. And they loved Sansa, and Arya.” He almost said Bran’s name, but his throat tightened and he couldn’t. Theon then let a breathy laugh. “When I was a child, I used to dream that someday Ned Stark would marry me to Sansa and claim me as a real son.”

His brows creased with a sarcastic look, shaking his head.

“Don’t look at me like that, Snow. I remember the way you’d stare at Sansa whenever she’d go walking across the courtyard in her southron dresses, giggling with the steward’s daughter. You wanted the same thing as me.”

Jon didn’t reply. He knew Theon was right. In some way, he’d always wanted Sansa. He’d always wanted someone to love, for someone to love him the same. When he’d finally admitted to himself that Catelyn Stark could never, and would never, love him, his hopes began resting on another redheaded Stark. But his hopes for his sister and his longing for her affections were innocent at the time, and he had no way of knowing what would happen between them later. As Davos had said earlier, fate was a funny thing.

Theon stepped forward. “What are you going to do about the Ironborn?”

He suddenly recalled a question that Lord Commander Mormont had posed back at the Wall. _“Are you a brother of the Night's Watch… or only a bastard boy who wants to play at war?”_

Was he a king, or was he only a bastard boy who wanted to play at being king? He was a bastard, true enough. The northmen all knew it. Everyone knew it from the moment he’d first arrived in Winterfell. He was a bastard, and they chose him anyway. They chose him because winter was here and he was the one who could help them. Why would they turn their backs on him now? They just swore their fealty to him once again in the council chambers mere hours ago. Who else was going to lead them? Jaime Lannister, future Lord of Winterfell? _He_ was the King in the North. But what action should he take?

Jon thought back to his conversation with Petyr Baelish that morning, and Sansa’s words suddenly resounded inside his head. _“Don’t do what he_ wants _you to do.”_ She’d been talking about Ramsay Bolton, and he should’ve listened to her. But he imagined that she’d also say the same thing about Littlefinger. He was going to listen to her now. What did Littlefinger want him to do? How did Littlefinger want him to react to the truth about himself? He already knew how Daenerys had reacted – ordering the Ironborn to kill them all.

Baelish had told him that he should request an audience with Daenerys and plead his case. Then he said to strike her down if necessary. If he walked into the west castle, he was a dead man. He’d probably be seized instantly and killed. And if he _was_ granted an audience with Daenerys before her forces laid their hands on him, and then he somehow was able to murder her, those soldiers of hers who she called the Unsullied would hack him to pieces. Littlefinger probably wanted them both dead. With both Targaryen heirs to the throne removed, and Cersei on her way out, then the most powerful person in the Seven Kingdoms would be… _Sansa_.

She’d probably inherit both the North and the Riverlands. If she married Jaime Lannister, she’d get the Westerlands as well. If he died, then any man who married her after him would get them all and rule them in her stead. _That_ was what Littlefinger wanted. He wanted power, and he wanted to use Sansa to get it. It’s why he married her aunt Lysa Arryn, it’s why he saved her from King’s Landing, and it’s why he sold her to the Boltons. It’s why he wanted everyone else out of the way.

*****

He moved to the door, throwing it open, walking out into the hallway with determination, Theon moving to stand hesitantly in the doorway. Jon pounded on the door to the bridal chambers. “Sansa!”

“She won’t open the door,” said Brienne, who stood there in the hall with Arya. “She won’t answer.”

A sense of dread filled his gut like a stone weight. He turned to his guards. “Break the door down.”

They froze, staring at him in shock.

“You heard your king! Do it!”

The guards quickly came forward. They slammed their bodies into the oak door, vibrating on its hinges, but it didn’t break. Brienne rolled her eyes, shaking her head. “Move out of the way.” Grabbing the door latch with her right hand, she slammed her body into the door with a great force, busting it open. Jon rushed inside the bridal chambers. It was dark. There was no fire in the hearth, and no candles had been lit. Arya walked away and then quickly returned holding a candle, handing it to her brother.

With the candle in his left hand, he went through Sansa’s bedchamber. It was empty. She was nowhere inside. He quickly moved to the wardrobe, opening it. It had been emptied except for the red silk dress with the rubies sewn into the bodice. Everything else was gone. _Oh, no._

Jon then told Owen Wull to go down to the ground floor and start asking the guards if they’d seen Lady Stark at all since the welcoming feast the previous night. If he ran into any Stark bannermen in the great hall who might be still lingering after the evening meal, they were to immediately go to their chambers. He commanded Luke Norrey to go out to the Stark camp and find out if any of their horses had been taken, especially the white gelding that belonged to Lady Sansa. As Owen and Luke ran down the spiral steps, he told Arya to return to her bedchamber and start packing up her things. After instructing Bill Liddle to watch Theon and stand outside Arya’s room, not to let her leave before he returned, he descended the steps with an increasingly worried Brienne.  

They quickly came to the third floor, and Jon proceeded to knock on all the chamber doors of his lords bannermen and Davos. They gathered in the wide hallway, staring at him in surprise.

“Pack up your things, and be quiet about it,” he told them. “Make your way out of the castle and to our camp. There you’ll command the men to quickly and quietly begin packing up their things and taking down the tents, without too much noise as to draw attention to themselves.”

The widened eyes of the lords bannermen continued to stare at him, not understanding what was happening. Davos and Brienne exchanged glances before turning their attention back to him.

Jon acknowledged their confusion with an empathic look, and then explained, his voice authoritative and confident. “A murderous plot has been uncovered, my lords. We’re breaking camp, and we must be gone by the time the sun comes up. There will be no alliance with Daenerys Targaryen and therefore there’s no need to continue at the Twins for the great council. There’s no need for the northmen to concern ourselves with thrones in the south and who sits on them. The North will bow to no one, we will answer to no one. I don’t care how many dragons she has. We have more important things to deal with now that winter is here. We’ll find a way to survive, we always have before. If Daenerys Targaryen wants to wipe out House Stark, she’ll just have to come north to do it. So I’m afraid our time in the Riverlands has come to its natural end. Pack up and spread the word through the camp, quietly. We’ll be riding for Moat Cailin before dawn.”

His lords bannermen were speechless at first, including Davos and Brienne, but then one by one they all bestowed on him looks of such pride and affection that he had never received in all his life. For a moment he thought they were all going to start shouting, “The King in the North!” But instead they quickly returned to their bedchambers and started packing just as their king commanded.

Jon then walked back up to the top floor to the tower, nodding at Theon and Bill Liddle who remained in front of Arya’s door. It wasn’t long before they were joined by Luke Norrey and Owen Wull just as Arya stepped out into the hallway, Needle hanging from her belt and a brown leather satchel hanging over her shoulder. Owen reported that none of the guards had seen Lady Stark since she’d left the welcoming feast the night before. She hadn’t been seen at either of the gates, to the river bank or the crossing bridge, morn, noon, or night. He then mentioned that the guards stated they hadn’t seen Lady Arya that much either.

Her stomach knotted and her eyes widened as she looked up at her brother. He turned to look at her. “But you’re in and out of the castle all the time. How could the guards not see you?” She averted her eyes from his. “Arya,” he said, his voice a warning, and he took a step towards her. “Is there a way in and out of this castle without being seen?”

She swallowed. Her heart started pounding, her palms started sweating. She nodded.

His guts twisted. “Did Sansa know about it?”

Closing her eyes, Arya hung her head in dismay. “Yes.”

“Show me.”

They then made their way down to the opposite end of the hall, and down the cramped narrow staircase, torches lighting up the stone walls as they descended the spiral steps. They soon reached the ground floor of the castle, the staircase coming to an end near the kitchens. Arya led him into a back room away from the stations where cooks prepared the food and serving girls would arrive to deliver them. They reached an old wooden door, hanging crooked on its hinges, and she swung it open with a creaking sound.

Jon found himself staring down into the river. There was a ledge outside the door. To the right was the east bank of the river several feet away. Far to the left lay the west bank, the green waters flowing between them. He guessed this door had once been used for deliveries of food stuffs and other supplies in the years before the Freys had built the moats and plank bridges.

“You showed this to Sansa?” he asked her.

Arya nodded. Guilt consumed her. She felt sick with worry. “Where would she go? Winterfell? I’d run away too if I had to marry Jaime Lannister.”

He gazed out at the river. “If that’s who she was running from.”

“But who else would she run away from? Daenerys?”

Even though he knew the likely answer, he kept silent. Jon sighed, his guts knotting fiercely. Where could she go this far from home? And anyone she came across would surely recognize her. She fled because she didn’t want to be found. If she never wanted to be found, then… Realization dawned as he continued to stare out at the Green Fork. The waters were a murky green color because of the abundant amount of moss in the Neck, the location of their swampy headwaters. If one simply followed the river…

Jon turned to look at Arya, gazing from her head down to where Needle hung at her side. The wheels turning in his head, he looked out over the river again, knowing where the waters eventually ended up. And if someone never wanted to be found…

“Take me to see your friend, Gendry.”

“Gendry? What do you need to see him for?”

He turned to look at her. “We need to warn him about the Ironborn.”

Arya nodded. She then took several steps back, bracing herself, and then ran to make a leaping jump, landing on the east bank of the river. Jon then followed, and they quickly made their way through the Stark camp, soldiers and guards silently nodding in their direction as they stealthily began to take down their tents. When the center pole was removed from a tent as they walked by, he asked for the direwolf banner, before folding it and stuffing it inside his cloak as they walked. Soon Arya was lifting the entrance flap to the familiar tent in the House Baratheon camp. Gendry jumped at their entrance, turning an annoyed look on her. But then his eyes widened at the appearance of Jon Snow, and he bowed his head, staring at the ground.

“You need to tell everyone in your camp to pack up and leave,” said Jon. “The Ironborn are going to raid you at dawn, and they’ll show no mercy.”

Gendry’s widening eyes flew at the king’s, and he swallowed.

“Whatever claim your house thought it might have to raise the Baratheon name once more will not stand as long as Daenerys Targaryen lives, you do realize this?”

“Uh… yes, my lord. It wasn’t my idea. The people of Storm’s End…”

He nodded. “I know.” Jon then sighed and folded his arms against his chest, fixing a stern look on the young man. “Can I trust you, Gendry?”

He swallowed again, looking nervous. “Yes… yes, my lord.”

“And can I trust you with my sister’s life?”

Gendry’s hands began to shake. “Yes, of course, my lord. I’d never let anything happen to…”

Jon nodded. “Very well. Now, how are you at rowing a boat?”

“I’d say I’m pretty good, my lord,” he replied, pursing his lips as he gave an affirmative nod of his head.

“Spread word through your camp that your people are all to leave this place and get as far away as they can,” said Jon. “Pack up your things, find a rowboat big enough for three people, and then get yourself over to the other side of the castle. Are you familiar with that door Arya constantly used to get in and out of the castle unseen? I want you and the rowboat down by that door in no less than an hour.”

Face reddening, she lowered her gaze to stare at the ground. Jon then grabbed her by the hand, turned her around, and walked determinedly back to the castle. It wasn’t long before they were back up on the fifth floor of the tower, where Jon’s three guards had remained with Theon Greyjoy. He looked at the young man from the Iron Islands, the man with no true home, no true family, loyalties and allegiances painfully divided.

Jon looked upon him with sympathy. “Theon, how would you like to atone for what you did to Robb? For putting Winterfell to the torch, murdering those boys, and shaming the memory of our father? What would you be willing to do for forgiveness and peace of mind?”

His throat tightened, and he blinked back tears. “Anything that was right.”

“Well, then I’d remove your heavy armor,” Jon said. “You’d probably just sink in the swamp. And the crannogmen would spot you as an Ironborn from a mile away. Their poisoned arrows would only need to give you the slightest scratch, and then just a few hours later you’d be screaming as your life drained from your ass in gushes of brown and red.”

“You’re sending me to the bog devils of the Neck?!”

He nodded. “But not just you, don’t worry. Arya is going as well. She’ll protect you.”

Her eyes flew to her brother’s face. “What?!”

Jon leaned over, placing his hands on her shoulders, and looked at her imploringly. “Sansa has run away to Greywater Watch. You’re the only one who can find her and bring her back to Winterfell. You’re the only one I trust, whose reasons for finding her are pure and innocent. She’s been used far too many times to serve the selfish interests of men for me to send anyone else after her, and I can’t go myself. I have to lead my men north. I have to be king. Do you understand?”

She nodded, her eyes pricking with tears.

“And I know you’re more than capable. I told Daenerys Targaryen that you were the most dangerous person in Westeros. I stand by what I said. You’re also the bravest and the most stubborn person I’ve ever known. Except maybe your sister.” He sighed. Thoughts of Sansa filled his guts with anxiety and fear. He tried to gain control over his emotions. “Will you do this for me? Please?”

“I already told you I’d do anything for you,” she replied tearfully, her voice thick with emotion.

Exhaling a breath of relief, he took her in his arms, hugging her tight. She wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed. It wasn’t long before Jon, Arya, and Theon were making their way down the torch-lit narrow staircase that led from the fifth floor in the tower to the ground floor outside the kitchens. Moments later, the broken wooden door was opening, and there was Gendry, sitting in a rowboat beneath the doorway as he held onto the ledge.

The young man from the Iron Islands, wearing only a tunic and breeches under his cloak, his heavy armor having been left behind in the tower, stared down into the rowboat.

“Get in, Theon,” Jon commanded with a stern voice.

Swallowing, his heart pounding and stomach knotting, he climbed down into the boat. He’d probably never see the Iron Islands again. He’d probably never see Yara again. If he did, she’d embed her axe in his skull.

Jon then turned to Arya, and their eyes met. A lump formed in his throat, and he choked on his words.

“What about Nymeria and Ghost?” she said. “They’re out there in the forest somewhere. We’re leaving them behind.”

“Don’t worry about them. How long after you’d returned to Westeros before Nymeria found you in the Riverlands? She’ll always find you. Just as Ghost will always find me. They are a part of us.”

Her brows creased as she nodded, but then she shook her head, feeling overwhelmed by the task in front of her. “Father said that a dozen streams drain the swamp into the Green Fork. The channels are ever drifting and changing. There are endless sandbars and tangles of rotting trees. And Greywater Watch moves. No one who has ever entered the Neck searching for it has ever been able to find it. How am I supposed to?”

 _“Enemies_ have never been able to find it,” he said. He then pulled out the grey and white banner with the direwolf sigil from inside his cloak, placing it in her hands. “You are not an enemy, and neither is Sansa. Go upriver to the Neck. Once you reach the swamps, tie the Stark banner to Needle and fly it above your head. The crannogmen will find you, and they’ll take you to Howland Reed.”

She nodded silently, her features contorted with worry and apprehension.

Jon knelt down in front of her, placing his hands on her arms, gently closing his fingers around her. “I will always be your brother. No matter what happens, no matter what anyone says, no matter what stories you might hear. I will always love and protect you as a brother. No one and nothing will ever take that away.”

Arya looked down at him, confused. “You’ve always been my brother.”

“And I always will be.” He lifted his hand, gently patting her on the cheek, before standing and moving with her towards the open doorway. He helped her step down into the rowboat, Gendry and Theon holding onto the castle’s stone ledge. With a frightened gaze full of anxiety, she kept her eyes on him as Gendry began rowing the boat north towards the eastern headwater of the Green Fork.

He watched the boat move farther and farther away, the light of the full moon setting the surface of the river sparkling, bathing the east and west banks in a dim light. Melisandre’s vision painfully came back to him. Jon had no idea which sister the red woman had seen in her fire. He had no idea which sister was in the most danger, which sister could possibly die, which sister needed the most protection. He only knew that he couldn’t bear to lose either of them. His eyes filled with tears as he watched her sail away from him, the whites of her own eyes staring back at him. He had no idea if he’d ever see her again, or Sansa. He could only hope.

He moved to the ledge. “Arya!” he called out into the night air.

She stood up in the boat, staring back at him.

He again shouted across the water. “The lone wolf dies…! But _the pack_ survives! Find Sansa, and bring her home!”

The words of her father. How many times had she heard him say that to her? For the longest time, she’d come to believe the opposite. She was the lone wolf, and she was the survivor, while her siblings were all either dead or forever lost to her at the Wall or in the hands of the Lannisters. But the pack had returned to her, at least what was left of it. Arya choked on the tears steadily streaming down her face. “I will!” she called back to him. “I promise!”

Tears welling up and brimming over, Jon watched them until the boat disappeared from view. He then turned and stepped back inside the castle, closing the broken wooden door behind him.


	23. Secrets Too Dangerous To Share

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Some secrets are safer kept hidden. Some secrets are too dangerous to share, even with those you love and trust." ~ A Game of Thrones, Eddard VIII

She lay next to him as he struggled to keep awake. He fought sleep as he gazed at her, not wanting to close his eyes. She caressed him, gently smoothing her hand over the strong, hard muscles on his back, shoulders, and arms. Eventually her soft caresses pulled him under, and unable to fight any longer, he closed his eyes. She watched him as he drifted to sleep, the worry and the conflicting emotions melting from his expression at least for the time being. Sansa then quietly slid out of his four-poster featherbed and slipped on her linen shift, gathering her damp smallclothes.

As she stood in front of the door to his chambers, unlocking it, she gazed at him sleeping peacefully. She knew come morning he would once again put on the visage of the King in the North, carrying the weight of the world upon his shoulders, his head bowed under the weight of a crown he did not wear. She knew come morning he would do his duty. He would maintain his alliance with Daenerys Targaryen, and then wed her, rule beside her. He would do what was necessary to protect those he loved, including the people in the North who had put their trust in him. She would be expected to do the same. She would be expected to do her duty as Ned Stark’s trueborn heir and marry Jaime Lannister, lay beside him in Winterfell’s bridal chambers, the very room where Ramsay Bolton had kept her locked away, bear his children and preserve the House Stark line. She would rather die.

Grasping hold of the latch, she quietly opened the door and stepped out into the empty, torch-lit hallway. The sounds from the drinking and feasting in the great hall instantly became louder. With one last lingering look, she bid a silent farewell to the man she loved, and closed the door. Once inside her bedchambers, she stood in front of the tall, shuttered window, looking out over the moonlit river. Jaime Lannister’s words came back to her, of what he’d told her of his love for Cersei during the dance they’d shared.

_“I’m not ashamed of loving Cersei. I was never ashamed of loving her. If I could have, I would’ve taken her as my wife for all to witness, to hell with the gods and the narrow opinions of men. I was only ashamed of the things we were forced to do in order hide our love, the horrible things I did to keep it a secret from the world. That secret brought untold suffering, not only to ourselves and our children, but to countless others. And in the end, the whole world found out anyway.”_

Cersei’s marriage to Robert Baratheon did little to part her from Jaime, to stifle their love. It had continued for years in secret, no doubt providing some sense of comfort and solace while she was forced to endure a miserable marriage to a drunken, philandering fool. And to protect that secret, they’d deceived and murdered, and the products of their love, abominations in the eyes of men and the gods, had sparked the War of Five Kings, bringing about the deaths of thousands.

Was her love for her own brother no less fierce, no less passionate and consuming? Could it not also provide her with comfort and solace once they were unhappily wed to others? A temporary bliss could be theirs whenever they met, perhaps once or twice a year, and were forced to confine their love and passion to hidden rooms away from the watchful eyes of others. Did that not also have the potential to cause untold suffering? What could she possibly find herself willing to do just to keep their love a secret? When their honor was so far gone that no place in the seven hells would be punishment enough? And then the world would no doubt eventually learn of their terrible secret anyway. How could she do that to herself, to the man she loved, to the memory of their beloved father?

Yet to marry Jaime Lannister would kill her. Not her mind, not her heart, but her soul. She loved her brother more than honor and duty, more than name, family, and even life. If happiness was forever denied them, then what was left but torture? And what could they possibly be willing to do for just a few fleeting moments of joy and pleasure when their tortured existence moved them to desperation? Their love would condemn them to misery unspeakable, intolerable. If she stayed, she would be lost.

She turned and stared at the open wardrobe against the wall. The red silk gown with glittering rubies, the gift from Daenerys Targaryen, her future sister by law, still hung there among the dresses she had made. Next to it was the gown of grey-green wool with the white direwolf embroidered over the heart. When she’d been desperate to escape King’s Landing, Dontos had grabbed hold of her hand and she ran away from Joffrey’s wedding. He’d run with her through the capital, leading her to the river where a man sat waiting for them in a small skiff to take them to Littlefinger’s ship. When she’d been desperate to escape Ramsay Bolton, Theon held onto her hand as they leapt from Winterfell’s battlements. Knowing she could have broken her ribs, back, or even skull, she jumped anyway. It was far better to leap to her death than to live any longer without dignity.

But now there was no man who would take her by the hand and lead her to a ship that would sail her far away from her troubles, or who would take her by the hand and jump with her to freedom. She only had herself, but that was enough. Her decision made, she walked over to the wardrobe and reached for the dress of grey-green lambswool, soft and warm. After donning clean smallclothes underneath her linen shift, warm stockings, and her gown, she set about lacing up her brown boots.

Once she had bound her hair in a long braid, she packed her small canvas bag with some clothing, including her blue fur-lined cloak and the other three woolen dresses she had brought with her. She slung the bag over her shoulder, the strap going across her chest. She then draped a plain hooded cloak of matching grey-green wool over her shoulders and tied it securely under her throat. As she started to walk to the door, a gleam caught her eye. She looked over at the silver platter on her small circular table. Quickly moving towards it, she picked up the small knife she used to cut her meat. It was nice and plain. No goldwork, no silver inlay, no jewels or stones in the hilt. But it was sharp, and she hid the blade under her cloak. If she was caught, then it was better for her to die than to let others control her fate.

Taking a deep breath, she opened her chambers door, locking the latch, and then shut it behind her as she stepped out into the empty hallway. She could have determinedly kept moving down toward the staircase, but the sight of the door across the hall caused her heart to momentarily stop beating. She froze, staring at it. The man she loved lay sleeping beyond that door. The urge to place her hand on the latch, to once again return to the passion she’d experienced in his arms, was overwhelming. Her eyes became blinded as if by smoke from the fire of love within her heart, but they were only filling with tears.

Had circumstances been different, she would have loved and lived with her brother through life until death, for her love was strong enough to cast out fear and all reproach. But he wasn’t just a man, he was the King in the North, and she wasn’t just a woman, she was the Lady of Winterfell. It was their honorable duty to join themselves with others, to make peace, to ensure security. She knew come morning he would be the dutiful king and make the necessary personal sacrifices. But in the morning, she would be gone.

*****

Sansa made her way through the darkened kitchen, placing some apples and loaves of bread into her bag. Finding a leather skin bottle, she filled it with drinking water that she poured from one of the flagons on the table against the stone wall. She then opened the broken wooden door in the empty back room, and stepped out onto the stone ledge, looking down into the river below. To the right was the east bank. She took some careful steps along the castle wall, moving closer to her target, and then she sprang from the ledge, and bounded clear, at one jump, over the waters of the Green Fork, and landed on the river bank. But losing her balance, she fell to the ground with a thud, her left foot grazing the surface of the water. Heaving an exasperated sigh, she supposed she wasn't as practiced as her sister.

Pushing herself up to stand, she then looked up at the large looming castle behind her. She was now out of the Twins; she was free. She took some steadying breaths and looked around into the darkness. Wispy clouds filled the night sky, intermittently blocking out moonlight and starlight. Where would she go? She couldn’t go north to the kingsroad, nor could she go south through the Riverlands. She’d be recognized. She’d be returned to the Twins, or taken to Cersei Lannister to collect the steep price on her head. She’d be caught by Littlefinger’s spies, who would no doubt kidnap her and take her to the Vale under the guise of his “protection.” She never wanted to be found. She had to go someplace where seeking her would be in vain, where she wouldn’t be recognized. And if she was, she would find no enemies there.

She stared upriver. Greywater Watch lay somewhere along an eastern headwater in the Neck. Howland Reed was there, one of her father’s most loyal and trustworthy friends. He hadn’t left the Neck in twenty-one years. No one bothered to go looking for him, and he was never expected at Winterfell’s councils. He kept to himself and commanded the crannogmen to guard the Neck from House Stark’s enemies, but they never left their lands to get involved with the wars and squabbles of the Seven Kingdoms. At least not since Robert’s Rebellion, when Howland Reed had left home to ride beside her father in search of her aunt Lyanna. Lord Reed would protect her; he would protect the daughter of Ned Stark. If _he_ could hide away in the Neck for twenty-one years, then so could she.

She knew Greywater Watch was about half the distance of Moat Cailin, lying some one hundred and fifty miles northeast along the Green Fork. She could make it there in twelve days on foot, more or less. If she kept the river to her left and didn’t stray too far, always keeping the water in sight, she could eventually find the seat of House Reed. She guessed the crannogmen would spot her traveling through their lands, and they’d naturally be suspicious. They might even apprehend her. But all she had to do was tell them her name…

With an anguished look back at the castle, she knew what would happen on the morrow. In the morning, he would wake to find her gone and his heart would be broken. Again, the desire to return to his side was powerful, to be his comfort, his pride, his savior from misery. But she would never see him again. It was like a sharpened arrow in her heart; it tore at her painfully, it sickened her stomach. Her self-respect and newfound autonomy were not comforts, could not cure her broken heart or the pain from breaking the heart of the one she loved.  

Steeling herself, her eyes filling with hot tears, she turned away to face upriver, and then began to walk away. She could not turn around, she could never go back. She walked fast along the river bank as if delirious, weeping tears of impassioned grief, each determined step forward thrusting the barbed arrow deeper into her heart. She walked for hours into the night, keeping to the river bank under the protection of darkness. Time eventually lost meaning as her tired body became numbed by exhaustion. The sky lightened from black to grey and then finally a violet-blue, as the morning sun began its steady ascent.

About midday, she started awake and glanced about in alarm. She had fallen asleep. Looking around from where she sat on the ground with her back up against the trunk of a great tree, safely enclosed within her grey-green cloak, her eyes quickly fell on the waters just beyond the tree line of the forest. After a few moments of getting her bearings, she realized she must have walked from the river bank to rest hidden among the trees, but she couldn’t remember when. She had no idea just how far she had traveled. Her mind then flooded with memories, painfully reminding her of where she was and why. Hot, stormy, anguished tears fell from her eyes. She appealed to the gods, old and new, feeling hopeless and brokenhearted. She cried until no more tears would come. She then took steadying breaths; tore off some pieces of bread, drank water from her skin, and continued walking upriver towards the Neck.

Several days passed, possibly six or seven. Each day she grew more fatigued, walking shorter distances before requiring rest. The air gradually became damp and clammy, grass turning to moss. She knew she was now making her way out of the Riverlands and into the swamp of the Neck. It wasn’t long before an endless black bog lay in front of her. Her heart sank even more, depression taking firm hold on her spirit. She walked along the river bank until the sun set and it became too dark to navigate safely. The trees were half-drowned and their branches dripped with curtains of fungus, and beneath the waters, quicksand would drown anyone who attempted to walk through them.

She found a spot beneath a canopy of trees, clutched her grey-green cloak about her, hiding the red of her hair beneath its hood, and used the low, mossy swell of the ground as a pillow. Fear kept her eyes from drifting closed. She imagined snakes watching her from the trees and lizard-lions floating half-submerged in the water, like black logs with sharp teeth, waiting to strike. She remembered the first time she’d ever been to the Neck, when she’d traveled with Robert Baratheon’s retinue from Winterfell to King’s Landing along with her father and Arya. She’d hated every minute of being in the swamp and bog, but her sister had loved it.

Memories came forward in her mind, and she smiled to herself sadly. The black bog with its snakes, lizard-lions, fungus, and quicksand had done nothing to deter Arya from being Arya. She remembered her courageously bounding into the swamp, leaving the safety of the narrow causeway with her young friend Mycah to search for lizard-lions. She would return smiling, her hair all tangled and her clothes covered in mud, having had a grand time of it. Her sister would also at times come back clutching raggedy bunches of purple and green flowers, and give them to their father. She kept hoping he would scold Arya for misbehaving, for not acting like the highborn lady she was supposed to be. But he would simply hug her sister and thank her for the flowers. Much to her chagrin, that had only encouraged her sister to keep doing it.

She’d been a selfish brat, mean, and unaccepting of Arya. Looking back, she could honestly admit that she’d been jealous of her sister’s bravery and impulsiveness, her ability to act and damn the consequences. She’d been jealous of her sister’s constant fight against the expectations of others, and her desire to be her own person. She’d secretly wished she could be just like that. But she was a lady, and had to do what ladies were expected to do – to sew dresses and sing and dance and wait for some golden-haired knight or prince to come along and sweep them off their feet. What a fool she’d been. She still hated the swampy bog of the Neck, but if Arya had been there with her now, holding out her hand and asking her to go play with her, to search for a lizard-lion or pick flowers they’d never seen before, she wouldn’t have said no.

*****

Arya sat down in her seat at the front of the rowboat, wiping the tears from her face. She gazed back at the castle in silence until it disappeared from view. What if Jon didn’t get away from the Twins safely? What if Daenerys sent her dragons after him? What if everyone was slaughtered? What if they got lost in the Neck and never found Greywater Watch? What if she never found Sansa? What if Sansa was somewhere out there, hurt, or even worse? And even if she did find her sister, how would they get back home without any horses? It would take months and months on foot. The kingsroad would be the most direct route, but enemies could easily find them. Her brother had such faith in her, but she wasn’t sure if she could do all that was needed to find her sister and bring her back to Winterfell.

If it weren’t for the full moon hanging large and bright in the cloudless night sky, making the surface of the murky water shine, they would’ve been cloaked in darkness. She stared at Theon Greyjoy sitting in the rear seat behind where Gendry rowed from the middle. He looked miserable. Reaching for her belt, she slowly pulled out Needle and held it threateningly in front of her.

“Listen here, Turncloak,” she said in a serious tone. “Try anything funny, and I will cut you from navel to nose.”

“Is your sword pointed at my back?” asked Gendry in annoyance.

She pursed her lips at the back of his head. “No, it’s pointed at Turncloak.”

Her friend sighed. “Well, put it away, would ya?”

“I was just warning him,” she grumbled, sheathing Needle into its leather scabbard. “He isn’t to be trusted.”

“Your brother trusts him,” Gendry replied.

She scoffed. “I wouldn’t go that far. The first chance he gets, he’ll try to abandon us and run away. He’ll probably go crying back to the Ironborn, saying we took him hostage or some nonsense.”

He glanced back at her over his shoulder. “Well… King Jon _did_ order him into the boat. He didn’t look too happy about it.”

“The gods be damned,” Theon swore. “I’m sitting right here, you know?” He heaved a sigh. “Of course Jon Snow doesn’t trust me. But he’s giving me the chance to earn it, to make up for what I’ve done.”

“There is nothing you can do to make up for what you did, Turncloak,” spat Arya. “Your job is to sit there and shut up unless we speak to you. And if you don’t keep quiet, when we enter the Neck I’ll tell the crannogmen that your name is Greyjoy. Good luck staying alive when that happens.”

He glared at her angrily, his stomach tying into a knot of fear. “How about I tell the bog devils who Jon Snow _really_ is? Good luck getting them to help you then.”

She furrowed her brows in disbelief. “What in the seven hells is that supposed to mean?"

"It's not my place to say," he replied evasively, giving her a smug look.

"Everyone knows who my brother is, you fucking son of a pox-ridden ass. Now _shut up_ before I stick you with the pointy end."

Theon folded his arms against his chest, his face burning hot with anger as he stared at the floor of the rowboat. Arya clenched her jaw and sat hunched over, playing with her fingers, feelings of uncertainty and confusion beginning to tighten the pit of her stomach. Oars digging into the darkened waters, Gendry heaved a long-suffering sigh. It was going to be a tiresome journey.

*****

Sansa woke as the sky lightened and revealed a grey dawn. After tearing off a piece from her last loaf of bread, her breakfast meager and unsatisfactory, she continued to make her way, keeping close to the bank of the river. The waters glimmered even greener here. Her travel was slow-going, as she was forced to make slow, deliberate steps through the bog, unable to see very far in front of her because of the eerie thick mist that hung in the air below the tree canopy. At times she felt that someone or something was watching her movements, yet nothing had intercepted her. However the feeling never ceased, and only grew increasingly stronger the further she went into the Neck.

In the afternoon of her first full day in the swamp, the winds began to howl, the sky darkened, and the rain began to pour. She found shelter from the cold rain by climbing up a tree and hiding underneath its many branches and leaves. There was nothing she could do except wait out the storm. The rain carried on throughout the remainder of the day, leaving her miserable. The only benefit to the abundance of rain was the chance it gave her to fill her leather skin with sufficient drinking water. But the wind soon picked up speed, sending droplets of rainwater straight at her, making her cold as ice.

Eventually the rain stopped and the sky cleared just as the sun set beyond the horizon. There was no point in continuing, and her travel would have to wait until the morning. Climbing back down from the thick tree branch where she had sat for hours, feeling achy and stiff, she settled on the wet, mossy ground. Removing her soaked blue fur-lined cloak and the damp gown of grey wool underneath, she replaced them with her woolen grey-green dress and the matching cloak from her canvas bag. She draped the cloak around her shoulders, pulling the hood over her head. After eating the last of her bread, having finished the last of the apples days ago, she lay down and closed her eyes, feeling exhausted.

Her period of rest might have been blissful enough, but in the morning she woke with a fever, sweating and shaking uncontrollably. Sitting up, she reached for her skin bottle and held it to her lips with trembling hands. She swallowed fast, relishing the feel of the cold water against her sore throat. It took all her strength to stand, but stand she did, and began moving determinedly forward, continuing to travel north, keeping the flooded river in her line of sight, hoping to find Greywater Watch before too long.

The moss was especially slippery after the storm, and she found herself falling several times, her chilly and weak limbs faltering. The moss and mud did not make for a hard fall, and so she was left unhurt, although her grey-green cloak soon became wet and dirty, as well as her hands and even the long braid of her hair. Stopping for rest at midday, she drank the last of her cool water to soothe her throat. Having no food to eat, want twisted her insides demandingly, but she had nothing to supply it. It wasn’t long until the aches and pains grew more severe, a feverish heat scalding her flesh as her body shivered with chills.

Losing her footing over the tangled roots of a rotting tree, Sansa stumbled and fell, her head hitting a rock, a sick feeling instantly boiling in her stomach. She lay dazed on the wet ground, her vision a blur. The face of the one she loved suddenly loomed in her mind and her broken heart throbbed beneath her breast. She keenly felt the pain of her heart’s inward bleeding, from the gaping wound inflicted upon it by severing the invisible cord that had tied it to the heart of the one she loved. She trembled for him with desperate longing and shattered hopes, and began weeping in a throe of true despair. She wept for herself, she wept for him, she wept for the life they would never have together. Then all went black and she fell asleep as a dull throbbing pain pulsed behind her brow.

They found her lying on the ground, delirious with fever and babbling wildly about someone waiting for her. She was soaking wet, covered in mud, and bleeding from the forehead. They asked her to tell them her name, but she stared at them as if unseeing and could not answer.

“Who do you think she is?”

“Hard to say. She’s so filthy you can’t even tell what color her hair is.”

“She isn’t lowborn. Look at her hands. She’s a lady.”

“From the Riverlands?”

“Why would someone from the Riverlands flee to the Neck? They would go south. They might go east to the Vale, or maybe cross over into the Westerlands. No one goes to the swamp.”

“Maybe she got lost.”

“Then she would’ve turned around when she reached the Neck and gone somewhere else. Why keep going this far? No one who enters the swamp ever comes out. Everyone knows that. And what southron lady would run north?”

“She’s not one of us, that’s plain. There’s no crannogman that’s ever lived that’s as tall as her.”

“Well, we can’t just leave her here. She’s sick.”

“That could be dangerous. We don’t know who she is. It could be a trap.”

“We won’t find out until she’s well enough to tell us anything.”

Feeling strong arms lift her from the ground, holding her tight against solid warmth, she breathed a sigh of welcomed relief. An obscure face hovered over her, and she couldn’t make out who it belonged to. “Tell us your name, child,” a voice said. She reached with her weakened arm, her left hand going to the man’s chin, feeling the dark curls of a thick beard. “Jon…,” she breathed, her eyes filling with hot tears. “Jon… Jon…”

“I don’t think that’s her name.”

Her arm dropped and her pounding head threatened to pull her under the darkness once more. The arms holding her stiffened and the men gasped.

“Oh, gods. That’s a white direwolf on her chest.”

“There’s the explanation. Only a woman of the North would enter the Neck of her own free will during times of war.”

“This isn’t just any woman, you fool. We have to take her to Lord Reed.”

Sansa felt herself being carried by the strong arms, heard serious voices whispering together, saw trees whirling by her at a fast pace, before everything went black and she lost consciousness again.

*****

They had quietly rowed into the swamp, twisting and turning with the eastern headwater of the Green Fork, the channel of murky waters edged by tall reeds and other bog vegetation as well as trees with hanging curtains of green fungus. Fish were occasionally seen gliding below, and there were a few times when Arya had been able to stab one with her sword, providing a scant meal for herself, Gendry, and Theon. But mostly she kept Needle held high above her head during the day, the direwolf banner of House Stark billowing in the breeze. At night they would make camp, but she always kept the banner visible.

A little ways out from the shore lay a half-submerged fallen tree, its branches encircling a sort of pond-within-the-river, rich with green algae and the rotting decay of the tree. Gendry skillfully rowed around it, keeping them on course. She stared at the back of his head. She thought they had made good time through the Riverlands, her friend rowing upriver about two miles an hour. But her worry for her sister increased each day, and she only hoped that she had made it safely to Greywater Watch. Two days ago there had been a rainstorm in the Neck, soaking them to the skin and making their travel impossible. They’d moored to the swampy shore and found paltry shelter beneath some trees. Two days later and the three of them still felt damp.

“How long until the crannogmen find us and take us to Greywater Watch?” asked Gendry, glancing over his shoulder at her.

“Shouldn’t be long, I hope,” she answered, looking about them anxiously. “But we haven’t seen any of them, and I don’t know how to find them…”

Theon shook his head, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “You won’t find them. You never see them, but they see you. Their houses are built on the reed islands they’ve made, and they move about the streams. Even a castle like Greywater Watch moves around in the water. Anyone who goes into the swamp after them gets lost and never comes out. The bog devils are sneaks, degraded creatures. They don’t fight like real men. They hide in the swamp with their bows, poison the shafts and smear shit on the arrowheads, and worse things. They’re probably out there right now, listening to every damn word we say.” He glanced at both banks to the river, knowing full well they were within bowshot of the bog devils and their poisoned arrows.

Arya glared at him. “I told you to keep quiet.”

“And what if the bog devils find us and take us to their castle and Sansa is actually there, but she doesn’t _want_ to go back to Winterfell?” he replied, ignoring her warning. “How are you going to make her? Threaten her with that pathetic sword of yours?”

“This sword has killed a good many people by my own hands. So you better shut your mouth, Turncloak, or I’ll put you on my list with the rest. Me and Gendry are awful hungry. We don’t have any flour to bake a pie, but how about I shove Needle up your ass and we’ll baste you for a turn or two over a hot fire?”

Theon stared back at her, his eyes glinting with anger as he silently seethed. She stared right back, just as angry. But Gendry had stopped rowing, and was staring up at the west bank. “Arya.”

She quickly turned and followed his gaze to the swampy shore, the young Ironborn doing the same. While he paled, her eyes widened. Five men stood there wearing sleeveless leather jerkins armored in bronze scales, dyed linen tunics, and lambskin breeches. Their garb was all varying shades of brown and green. Some had beards, some were shaven. Although short in stature, they were well-muscled and strong. They held slender three-pronged spears and round leather shields in their hands. Woven nets and long bronze knives hung from their hips. They looked at the direwolf sigil held in the air, before turning their gaze to the three strangers.

“What are your names?” one of the crannogmen demanded.

Standing up at the front of the rowboat, she kept a tight grip on Needle’s hilt and her head held high and confident. “I am Arya Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, and sister to Jon Snow, King in the North and the Trident.” She turned a gaze into the boat. “This is my friend, Gendry Waters, son of Robert Baratheon. And this is…”

Theon’s stomach knotted and he stared down into the floor of the rowboat, swallowing against the lump of fear forming in his throat.

Arya paused, but then continued to speak just as confidently. “This is Theon Rivers, my servant, son of some worthless river lord who’d rather give him away to my service instead of looking after the bastard himself.”

Although he felt thankful that she hadn’t sold him out as a Greyjoy and kept his true identity a secret, his blood boiled in anger at her words, spoken with contempt.

“Now, what are the chances of encountering _two_ Stark girls in the swamp?”

“You’ve seen Sansa?! You’ve seen my sister?” Her heart pounded in her chest as her eyes widened, her breathing quickened.

The men gazed upon her with somber faces. “Aye, we have. Just yesterday. We brought her to Lord Howland Reed. Why has she come to the Neck?”

She could only shake her head helplessly. “I’m not sure. I can guess. Why? Hasn’t she told you?”

“Lady Stark hasn’t been able to say much of anything,” he replied, his face somber, his voice grave.

“What do you mean?” she asked, her stomach tying into a tight knot. “What’s wrong with her?”

Several of the crannogmen averted their eyes from her questioning, anxious gaze, before the leader answered her. “Lady Stark is sick with greywater fever.”

Her eyes worriedly flew to each of the crannogmen. “Is that serious? She’ll be fine, right?”

“Only time will tell.”

“How much time?” she demanded.

The man sighed. “I’d give it three days. If she still lives on the fourth day hence, then the fever will have passed and she will be safe.”

Arya’s face became grim, serious, while a storm of emotion raged inside. “Take me to my sister.”

*****

She walked into the chambers quietly, shutting the door behind her, and with noiseless steps Arya advanced toward the bedside. She stood a moment looking down at where Sansa lay sleeping in her sick-bed, flushed and feverish. A damp cloth covered her brow. The bed linens were drawn up to her chest, her bare arms remaining free. She sat down by the bed, gazing at her sister’s face. The morning sun slanted across the room, and the open window allowed the cool winter air to accompany the sun. She had yet to come face to face with Howland Reed, as he was currently holed up in his council chambers with the lords of the Neck. However, his wife and the steward had hospitably greeted their entrance into the castle. Lady Reed was also short in stature and slim, with long brown hair bound in a braid and moss green eyes. She had a kind smile and Arya had guessed that her disposition was naturally cheerful.

A maidservant then carried in a flagon of cold water and placed it on the small table at the bedside, before pouring some into a basin. She reached for the cloth at Sansa’s forehead, but Arya intervened. “I’m here now, and I’ll do that,” she said. The girl nodded silently, bowed and curtseyed, and then just as silently left the room. She stared after the maidservant until the door was closed. She then stood up and walked to the other side of the bed, soaked the cloth in the cold water, wrung out the excess, and then placed it back on her sister’s brow.

Arya spent the next three days without much sleep, never leaving Sansa’s sick-room, attending her with the nursing skill of a trained maester and the devotion of a faithful sister. Twice a day, the healer of Greywater Watch would check in on them along with House Reed’s steward to ensure they had what they needed. He would feel the blood pulsing in her wrist, administer broths and potions, but little improvement was seen in her sister’s condition. He would shake his head quietly, his brows furrowing with concern, and then leave the chambers without a word.   

On the third night, the healer walked in with the steward as well as Lady Reed, their faces somber. Arya’s stomach knotted even tighter, and grief threatened to sink its claws into her heart. The healer looked Sansa over, but his grave expression did not change.

“Will she be all right?”

The healer sighed, and pursed his lips. “She’s been suffering from the fever for nearly five days, my lady. She might not live through the night, and yet she might rally. I cannot tell. Get her to drink as much of the broth made with the healing herbs as you can. I shall return in the morning. I suspect that in the morning we will know for certain.”

Lady Reed offered a sad smile. “That bastard boy you brought with you, Theon Rivers, he constantly enquires after Lady Sansa. He’s quite worried. He’s been asking to see you and your sister.”

Her throat tightening, unable to tear her eyes from her sister’s infirm state on the sick-bed, she could only shake her head.

“Very well,” replied Lady Reed. “If there is anything you need, don’t hesitate to ring for the maidservant and we will do our best to meet all that you require, my lady.”

The steward, healer, and Lady Reed then left the chambers, leaving Arya alone with her sister, her unspoken fear that Sansa might not live to see the morning filling up the room, nearly suffocating her. She’d decided that Greywater Watch was a sad, dreary place, despite not having seen much of it, and she fervently hoped that it would not become a place of death. She obeyed the healer, bringing a small cup filled with the broth to her sister’s lips as she held up her head, and watched her drink. Sansa then fell back onto the pillow, trembling, not speaking, and barely opening her eyes.

Arya perched anxiously in the wooden chair beside the bed. A memory suddenly rushed forward, of that awful day on the kingsroad when they’d traveled from Winterfell to King’s Landing. She’d been angry at what had happened between herself and Joffrey and Mycah, at Sansa lying to Cersei, at having to throw rocks at Nymeria to get her to run away. She’d told her father that she hated Joffrey and the Hound and Cersei and King Robert. She then had said that she hated Sansa, too. Her father then sat her down and said that he needed to explain some things to her…

_“You are a Stark of Winterfell,” her father had said. “You know our words.”_

_“Winter is coming,” she had whispered._

_“The hard cruel times. Remember the sigil of our House, Arya.”_

_“The direwolf,” she'd said._

_“Let me tell you something about wolves, child. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Summer is the time for squabbles. In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths. So if you must hate, Arya, hate those who would truly do us harm. Sansa… Sansa is your sister. You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts. You need her, as she needs you.”_

_“I don't hate Sansa,” she’d told him. “Not truly.” It had only been half a lie._

Fear gripped Arya’s heart, and it beat violently in her chest. Grief threatened to overwhelm her, tears threatened to blind her, the time quickly fading threatened to pull her down. She crawled into the sick-bed next to Sansa, hugging her tight, a part of her mind flooding with a deep, dark wave of despair and hopelessness. “I don’t hate you,” she choked as anguished tears streamed down her face. “I take it back! I didn't really mean it! I never hated you. I was a stupid girl. I'm so sorry! You can’t die! You have to live!” She couldn’t lose her sister. She couldn’t. She continued to choke on her sobs until eventually she succumbed to her grief and exhaustion, and she fell asleep curled up on the mattress next to her sister.

*****

She slowly fluttered her eyes open and gradually became aware of her surroundings. A grey stone ceiling was above her. Something exquisitely warm and solid was pressed up against her side. Her gaze went right, to the open window. The cold grey light of morning was beginning to enter the room. She then turned her head to the left. Her sister was asleep next to her, lying curled up on her side, with her arm and leg thrown protectively over her own body.

Bringing her hand over, she brushed the dark hair from her sister’s brow, tucking the strands behind an ear. “Arya,” she whispered. Her sister opened her eyes, squinting up at her. “What are you doing in my bed? You have your own.”

Her eyes widened at Sansa’s smiling face looking down at her, and she sat up as blessed relief flooded her insides. “You’re… you’re…? How are you feeling?”

“Like I could go back so sleep, I’m so tired,” she replied. “But I’m fine.” She then became aware of other sensations. “Arya, I need to make water.”

She rolled off the bed and then turned to help Sansa out from under the bed linens. When her sister stood up, she could barely stand, and so Arya helped her over to the room with the bath that flanked the bedchamber and assisted her down on top of the chamber pot. When she finished, Arya helped her back to bed. Sansa breathed a sigh of relief as she lay back down on the mattress, her weak limbs relishing the rest, and she gazed at her sister. “We’re not at the Twins.”

Arya shook her head sadly as she sat in the chair beside the bed. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Sansa closed her tired eyes and sighed. Her memories were dim. “It had rained. There was a storm. I was walking through the swamp.” Her eyes then flew open and she stared wide-eyed at her sister. “What happened? Where are we?”

“We’re in Greywater Watch,” she answered. “You fell sick with fever and were brought here by the crannogmen.”

“How did you find me?”

Arya pursed her lips. “Jon sent us after you. I’m to bring you home to Winterfell.”

Sansa furrowed her brows. _“Us?”_

“Gendry and…,” she paused, before leaning closer and whispering. “Theon.”

“Theon Greyjoy?”

She waved her hands in front of her. “Shh! The crannogmen can’t know he’s Ironborn or they’ll kill him. His name is Theon Rivers here. Don’t forget.” Arya sighed, her shoulders slumping. Her throat then tightened and her eyes filled with tears. “Sansa, why did you run away? Why didn’t you come to me for help? I would’ve helped you.”

Before Sansa could reply, there was a knock on the chambers door and in walked the healer as well as Lord and Lady Reed. She stared at them as they entered with wide eyes and a confused expression. She had no idea who they were. The old man wore a linen tunic and breeches made of lambskin. The lady was about the same age as her own mother would’ve been, with brown hair bound in a long braid and wearing a gown made of dark green wool. The lord had hair and beard, both a greying brown, and wore a leather jerkin and woolen breeches. Neither were very tall. The lady seemed kind. Her husband appeared strong and his eyes were smart, revealing a quiet intelligence. Their expressions all bore signs of relief.

“My, my, you’re looking well. Must’ve drunk enough of my special healing broth. Let me take a look at you.”

She tore her gaze from the older man to her sister. “This is Lewys Cray,” Arya explained. “He took care of you while you were sick.”

He chuckled as he pressed his fingers to her wrist. “Lady Arya was by your side day and night, Lady Stark. I did but little.”

She turned a grateful look on her sister, and Arya’s reddening face lowered as she began to play with her fingers.

“I never once imagined I would ever house the ladies of Winterfell under my roof,” spoke Lord Reed to Sansa. “And I’m sorry it had to be under these circumstances. But I must say you’re looking much improved to when I first saw you enter this castle, not that you’d remember. I am Howland Reed, and this is my wife Jyana.” He then turned his attention to Arya, and did a double take, his mouth falling open as he gazed. “You look just like her,” he said sadly.

“Who?” she asked.

He pursed his lips, and sighed. “Lyanna.”

Arya’s eyes widened. “Father’s sister? You knew her?”

“Yes, I knew her,” Lord Reed said. “She was very kind and goodhearted.”

“I thought she was stubborn and willful,” she replied.

He laughed. “Oh, I’m sure she was those things as well. But in my personal experience, she showed me real genuine kindness.”

Her curiosity piqued, Arya bounced on the chair. “What happened? What did she do?”

Howland glanced to the bed, where Sansa was struggling to keep her eyes open. “Maybe I’ll save that story for later, when your sister is feeling up to company.”

Arya followed Lord and Lady Reed and Lewys Cray out into the hallway. “When will she be well enough to travel back home?” she asked them.

“Greywater fever puts the body through quite an exhausting ordeal,” replied the healer. “It could be two or three weeks before she’ll be up for a long journey.”

“Do you know why your sister fled the Riverlands, my lady?” asked Lady Reed.

Sighing, Arya shrugged. “She was betrothed to Jaime Lannister. She couldn’t have been happy about it. But my brother seemed to think there could possibly be another reason she’d run away.”

Howland Reed gazed at her appraisingly. “Marriage contracts can be broken, and they are broken all the time. She probably could’ve gotten out of it if she tried. To run away is usually an act of desperation. There are some possibilities as to what would move a young woman to do such a thing…”

“Yes, well…,” replied his wife, clearing her throat. “We don’t need to talk about that now. When Lady Sansa is feeling well enough to leave her room and walk about the castle, maybe we can sit down together and have a real chat.”

Nodding silently, Arya had no reply. They then turned and walked away down the hall. She stepped back inside her sister’s bedchambers. Sansa had fallen back to sleep. She sat down in the chair beside the bed, and kept watch over her sister, wondering why she had run away from the Twins, and if she would truly be willing to return home to Winterfell.

*****

Absence was often considered to be the great bane of two lovers’ existence, the torment of their lives when forced to spend them apart. Absent from Jon, time seemed to lag on broken wings made of stone. Minutes became miserable hours, hours turned into anguished days. Existence was slowly becoming a burden when there was no hope of ever seeing him again. But she’d known that from the moment she had opened that broken wooden door and leapt to freedom. She knew what the consequences of her decision would be. Sansa refused to speak of what had compelled her to leave the Twins and she refused to agree to Arya’s plan of returning to Winterfell, much to her younger sister’s frustration and worry.

One week after Sansa had woken up inside a bedchamber within Greywater Watch, Lady Reed knocked on her door and entered. “I’ve just come to check up on you. Lady Arya said that you were feeling ill and had gotten sick.”

She sighed, remembering her mad rush for the chamber pot two hours earlier. “I was a little sick when I woke up this morning, but I’m feeling fine now. Thank you for the breakfast you sent up.” She chewed her bottom lip. “Um… have you or Lord Reed heard anything from the king? Any message?”

Lady Reed smiled and nodded, and quietly gazed at her. Lady Stark had asked after King Jon, the White Wolf, every day since she’d first arrived delirious with fever. “No, I’m sorry, my lady. We haven’t.” She paused, considering. “I think I’ll have Lewys take a look at you, just to be sure.”

Before Sansa could protest, the lady of the house had left the room and disappeared behind the closing door. It wasn’t long before Jyana Reed had returned with the healer, Lewys Cray. He made her stand up, and he gazed up at her height, eyes wide. She gave a slight grin down at the short man. He ran his hands over her belly, her hips, and then much to her surprise, he brought his hand to each breast, feeling their weight in his palm. He then removed his hand, locked eyes with Lady Reed, frowned and nodded, and stepped back. “Lady Stark, can you tell me when you had your last moon blood?”

She swallowed, trying to remember. She counted the days in her head, and came to the realization that it should have arrived two weeks ago. It had never been late before. “About six weeks ago, I think…”

“I’m sure she’ll be all right, Lady Reed,” the healer said, turning his attention to his master’s wife. “It’s a miracle she survived the greywater fever, not to mention her child, sick as she was.”

Sansa slowly sank down to sit on the edge of the bed, eyes wide, her stomach knotting fiercely as her heart pounded. _No. No, no, no._

Jyana Reed kept her expression passive, and merely nodded. “Thank you, Lewys. That will be all.” She watched him bow and leave the room, shutting the door behind him. She then stepped closer to the bed. “Did you know that you were with child when you fled the Riverlands, Lady Stark?” she asked quietly.

Her mind was a whirlwind, her guts churned with anxiety. All she could do was shake her head. Suddenly there was a knock and her sister opened the door, Jyana Reed walking over to her. They whispered together in the doorway, before Arya entered the room, Lady Reed walking away down the hall. She closed the door, and stood there, eyes wide and lips parted, her expression one of shock. “You’re pregnant?”

Sansa’s throat tightened and hot tears filled her eyes.

“But the child can’t be Ramsay Bolton’s, right? That was so long ago…” Arya said, trying to make sense of the situation. Anger began to boil in her stomach. “Who dishonored you? I’ll gouge his eyes out and bleed him dry!”

“I can’t tell you,” she cried, her voice thick with emotion. She then stood up from the bed and moved quickly towards her sister. “Please don’t ever ask that of me again!”

She’d backed up to the door, breathing hard. “No, don’t keep it a secret from me. Tell me who harmed you. I’ll make him pay!”

Opening the door, Sansa grasped her sister’s arm and pushed her out, as her tears welled up and brimmed over. “Please just leave, Arya. I need some time to think.”

Throughout the rest of the day, Sansa refused to leave her room to lunch with the Reeds, her sister, Gendry, and Theon. She’d also refused to leave her room for the evening meal. At times Arya or Lady Reed would come around and knock, asking her to speak to them of her troubles, but she’d only turn them away. Even the healer, Lewys Cray, had come around asking her if she was feeling all right. She turned them all away without even opening her door. Then late in the evening, she finally was able to fall asleep.

But there was no forgetting, even in sleep. She dreamed that she was back in Winterfell, and she was being marched through its kingsroad gate and to the winter town wearing nothing but filthy rags. The townspeople had gathered and a tumult of sound filled her ears. They were shouting angrily. Voices called out, “whore” and “sinner.” But the loudest of them all were the shouts of, “brotherfucker” and “cunt” and “traitor” and “abomination.” Then someone screamed at her, “mother of a bastard monster!” She saw the faces of her mother and father, weeping heartbroken tears.

Sansa bolted upright and moved to sit on the edge of the bed as anguished sobs wracked her body. What was she going to do? She thought of Jaime and Cersei, and what everyone in the Seven Kingdoms had thought of their children. Was that her fate? The fate of this child? How could she allow that to happen? How could she cope with the shame and dishonor it would bring to House Stark and her father’s memory? And to live in constant danger, knowing that someday someone might learn of the child’s father? What would happen to her then? To Jon? To their child? How could she live with herself?

Looking up, her tearful gaze fell on the small circular table in the room. There she had placed her hair comb and the small, plain knife she’d taken with her from the Twins, which she used to cut her food. She let out a few shuddering sobs, catching her breath, and stared at the blade, tears streaming down her face.

*****

Overhearing the deep, heart wrenching sobs coming from Sansa’s bedchamber, Theon walked quickly down the hallway towards her door. Not waiting to knock and receive an answer, he grasped hold of the latch and opened the door without hesitation. He found her sitting on the floor, holding a knife to her wrist. Thankfully, he saw nothing red. He rushed to stop her, wrenching the blade from her hand and throwing it away. It smacked hard against the opposite wall. She began collapsing to the floor, weeping bitter tears, but Theon seized hold of her wrists and began shouting for Lord Reed.

Arya arrived first, hearing his shouts and the loud cries of her sister. Her eyes widened at the sight of Sansa on the floor, overcome with misery, being held by Theon. She also shouted for Lord and Lady Reed before entering the room. A minute later they both appeared in the doorway with wide eyes and rushed to Sansa’s side. They helped her up off the floor and onto the bed, where she sat on the edge, hot tears still falling down her cheeks. Lord Reed looked at Theon, who nodded towards the small knife lying on the floor by the wall. Upon sight of the blade, his expression became grim. He then directed his wife’s attention to the knife.

“What’s wrong, my dear?” asked Jyana Reed. “Nothing can be that bad.”

“You don’t understand,” Sansa cried. “I can’t have this baby. It’s an abomination, everyone will say so.” She took some shuddering breaths. “Have you not heard from Jon? Has he sent no raven? He must know that I am here if he sent my sister after me.”

“Ravens cannot find Greywater Watch, no more than our enemies can,” replied Lord Reed. “But ravens do arrive in other strongholds of the Neck and then messages get to me. I can tell you that I’ve received word that the King in the North safely arrived in the Neck recently by the kingsroad and was making a brief camp at Moat Cailin. We assume he rides for Winterfell, which is where you and your sister will be going as soon as you’re well enough to make the journey. I’m sure the king will be waiting for you there.”

Sansa shook her head, fresh tears welling up in her eyes. “I can’t ever go back there. I can’t ever see him again.”

Theon’s eyes widened and he turned a smug gaze on Arya, who gave him a dirty look in return.

Howland Reed sighed. “Bastards are born all the time. It’s common enough. There’s nothing to fret about. Besides, perhaps the man will wed you. You’re a highborn lady from a noble house. Anyone would be lucky to have you.”

“He can’t marry me,” she said miserably, her chest tightening with grief. She let out a shuddering sob, trying to steady her breathing. “It’s impossible.”

Lady Reed turned widening eyes on her husband and he caught her gaze. “In her worst fevers, she kept begging for Jon,” she said in a low voice, giving him a knowing look.

He shook his head incredulously, and then realization dawned. He knelt down in front of Sansa, his hands holding her arms gently. “Dear sweet child, did your father never tell you? Did Ned never tell Jon Snow?”

“Tell us what?” she replied, hiccupping tearfully.

Lord Reed sighed, hanging his head.

“Howland.” His wife stepped forward, her hand going to his shoulder. “There is a right time and place for every truth to be told. Now is the time.” She then turned. “Lord Rivers, would you accompany me down to the kitchen? I think there are some sweet cakes rich with honey that you’d enjoy.”

Arya stared at Theon, who kept looking between Lord Reed and Sansa with brows furrowing in confusion, and then poked him hard. “She means _you_ , you dolt.”

“Oh, yes, my lady.” He gave Arya a mean grimace, before turning around and walking out of the bedchamber with Lady Reed.

*****

Howland stood, gazing between the two Stark girls. Sansa had begun wiping the tears from her face. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” Less than ten minutes later, he’d returned to find Arya sitting beside Sansa on the bed. After closing the door, he began to speak. “Now, you’d asked me to tell the story of how I knew of your aunt Lyanna’s kindness,” he said, taking the wooden chair and sitting in front of them. They nodded and saw that he now held two scrolls of faded parchment in his hands, although one was whiter and not as old as the other.

He took a deep breath, and then fixed them with a steady gaze. “When I was a very young man, there was a tourney at Harrenhal in the Riverlands. It was also known as Lord Whent’s great tournament. It took place over a period of ten days in the year 281, two years before the birth of Jon Snow, and was the grandest tourney of its time. There was an archery contest, axe-throwing contest, a horse race, singers, and five days of jousting. It was at the tourney where I met your father Ned, his brother Brandon, and sister Lyanna.

“Early on in the tourney, I was beset by some rowdy squires. They had no love for the crannogmen. That was plain. But a beautiful maiden intervened and protected me – Lyanna. Then a mystery knight entered the tourney, ‘to defend the honor of a crannogman,’ disguising himself as the Knight of the Laughing Tree, who challenged and defeated the three knights whose squires had bullied me. No one ever learned his identity at the tourney, as he disappeared.” He smiled at the memory. “It was your aunt Lyanna.”

The girls smiled, Arya grinning widely, showing her teeth. “She jousted?”

He shook his head. “Have you never heard this story? I thought Ned would’ve told you this so many times you would’ve gotten sick of hearing it.”

“We’ve never heard it,” Sansa replied.

“It was Old Nan who told us stories,” said Arya. “Not our father.”

Howland pursed his lips, nodding. “Well, your father and I became great friends. And Lyanna earned a special place in my heart. The royal family was also at the tourney, including King Aerys. He looked horrible, old and feeble and in ill health. It was quite a shock. The Kingsguard were present, including Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Oswell Whent, and Lord Commander Gerold Hightower. I remember in the final days of the tourney, Dayne’s sister Lady Ashara had the eyes for Ned, much to the annoyance of some of the Kingsguard.” He sighed, pausing, his expression saddening. “Anyway, Rhaegar Targaryen won the tourney of course. When the tourney began, the daughter of Lord Whent was the queen of love and beauty. And because all the knights who jousted in her honor had been defeated, as the victor Prince Rhaegar was given the honor of choosing the _new_ queen of love and beauty. But he rode his horse right past his wife, Elia Martell, and placed the crown of blue winter roses into the lap of Lyanna Stark.”

Sansa’s face fell, as did Arya’s. They knew how this story eventually ended.

“This caused quite the scandal, as Rhaegar was married to Princess Elia and Lyanna had been betrothed to Robert Baratheon,” he continued. “And at the beginning of the tourney, Prince Rhaegar had been giving his attentions to another woman entirely. But setting his eyes on the daughter of Winterfell changed everything. You all know the story everyone heard – of how Rhaegar kidnapped Lyanna a year later, the cruel deaths of your grandfather, Lord Rickard Stark, and your uncle Brandon, Robert Baratheon’s rebellion, of Lyanna’s death.”

“What’s the real story?” asked Sansa, her voice serious, her gaze penetrating.

He sighed. “A lot happened in that year between the tourney and your aunt’s… kidnapping. A lot that was kept secret from nearly everyone in the Seven Kingdoms. About nine months following the tourney, word came out that Ser Arthur Dayne’s sister had given birth to a stillborn daughter. Poisonous rumors spread that someone had dishonored her at the tourney. A lot of people pointed the finger at your father, especially after he brought a bastard son home to Winterfell. But your father never dishonored anyone, and Lady Ashara was not the mother of Jon Snow.”

Arya chewed on her lip. “Then who was his mother?”

Howland looked down at the scrolls in his hand. “Your aunt Lyanna.”

“What?” the girls replied in unison.

“Two years following the tourney at Harrenhal, about a year following Lyanna’s abduction, your father and I arrived at the Tower of Joy in Dorne along with Lord Willam Dustin, Ser Mark Ryswell, Ethan Glover, Martyn Cassel, and Theo Wull. Lyanna was being kept there, and we’d come to reclaim her.”

Sansa licked her lips, thinking. “How did you know she was there?”

He paused, as if debating what to say. “Lady Ashara told your father where he could find Lyanna. Ned told Robert, but he was hurt after defeating Prince Rhaegar on the Trident. He couldn’t go after her.”

“Why would Ashara Dayne tell Father where he could find Lyanna?” Sansa asked. “Her brother was in the Kingsguard.”

“But Lord Reed just said that Ashara had made eyes at Father at the tourney,” said Arya. “She liked him.”

Howland nodded, averting his eyes. “Yes, well… whatever her reasons were, she did. And her information was correct. The Tower of Joy was the place where Rhaegar had kept Lyanna. When we arrived, three members of the Kingsguard were there – Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, Ser Oswell Whent, and Ser Arthur Dayne. They killed five of us before your father and I finally defeated Dayne. Your father ran into the tower. I remained outside, for a little while. But after some minutes, I followed up the stone steps, opened the door, and went inside.”

He took a deep breath and his eyes became wet with unshed tears. “I had to search through several rooms before I found the right one. I then found your father kneeling beside a blood-soaked bed, holding onto the hand of his dead sister. There were winter roses in the room. Lyanna loved blue winter roses. She lay dead, but there was a sweet smile upon her face. She’d given birth to a baby, a boy, and she made your father promise not to tell Robert Baratheon about him. He’d sworn to wipe out all the Targaryens from existence, and so she made your father promise to protect her son. We went over to him and pulled his hand from hers.”

Sansa and her sister stared at Lord Reed with wide eyes and mouths agape. “Jon Snow was never Father’s bastard?” Arya said. “He’s Rhaegar Targaryen’s bastard?”

Howland shook his head. “He’s not a bastard.”

“But... of course he is,” Arya insisted.

“In the eyes of the three Kingsguard at the Tower of Joy, he was not a bastard,” Lord Reed said. “When we arrived and Ned demanded his sister, they declared that Robert was an illegitimate authority, not their king, and a usurper. They declared that King Aerys would yet sit the throne if they had been there, that Jaime Lannister was a false brother for killing their king. They declared that the battle at the Trident would’ve turned out differently if they had been there, that Rhaegar would still be alive. They refused to go to Viserys Targaryen at Dragonstone when Ned offered them the chance to go. They pumped their chests in proud declaration that they were ‘ _Kings_ guard!’"

“So who was the highest claimant of their Kingsguard vow, which was a vow that they were willing to die for just to fulfill their duty? It wasn’t Viserys, the next trueborn son of King Aerys. There is no way they would have stayed with the crown prince’s mistress and his bastard knowing that Viserys was at Dragonstone without a Kingsguard to protect him. They refused to leave the tower. In their eyes, they were guarding the true heir to the throne. With Aerys and Rhaegar dead, they were now guarding the king.”

Arya’s eyes had gone wide. “Jon.”

Sansa shook her head. “For that to be possible, the Kingsguard would’ve had to have some evidence of Rhaegar and Lyanna’s marriage. And he was already married to Elia Martell. Rhaegar and Lyanna couldn’t have been married. He kidnapped her and raped her.”

He shook his head, and held up the scroll of the older, faded parchment. “Rhaegar secretly courted Lyanna, they fell in love, and then they eloped. He’d married Elia Martell according to the Faith of the Seven, but Rhaegar took Lyanna to the Isle of Faces in Gods Eye lake, near Harrenhal in the Riverlands, and wed her beneath a weirwood tree according to the ancient rites of the old gods. Once King’s Landing had been sacked and Elia Martell tragically killed…” Howland paused. “Upon the deaths of Rhaegar, King Aerys, Princess Elia, and Rhaegar’s two eldest children, Lyanna was queen. From the moment Jon was born he was King of the Seven Kingdoms and the Kingsguard belonged to him.”

In shock, Sansa could only stare. “So… Jon’s not our brother? He was never Father’s son. He was Lyanna’s.” She didn’t know how she felt. She felt relief, as if a massive weight had been suddenly lifted, but she also felt confused to what this would mean for him.

“I think he knows,” said Arya. “Before I left the Twins, he told me that he’d always be my brother no matter what anyone said, no matter what stories I heard. Who could have told him?”

“There isn’t anyone who knows the truth other than myself and my wife,” Lord Reed answered. “Everyone else who could possibly know is dead.” He held out the scroll and placed it in Sansa’s hands. “Inside the cloak of Arthur Dayne was Rhaegar’s will. He describes meeting up with Lyanna, riding with her through the Riverlands, wedding her beneath the weirwood tree, his Kingsguard being the witnesses, and bequeathing rulership of the Seven Kingdoms to their child upon his death.”

She stared down at the scroll, opening it. She read the words. Prince Rhaegar had signed the will, as did her aunt Lyanna and the three Kingsguard. “But if Lyanna had gone with him willingly, why did people say she was kidnapped?”

He shook his head. “When your uncle Brandon was traveling through the Riverlands on his way to Riverrun to wed your mother, Catelyn, he was told that Prince Rhaegar had kidnapped Lyanna. Instead of riding to Riverrun, he changed course and rode straight to King’s Landing. It was a foolish action. But Brandon was headstrong and willful, same as Lyanna. I can’t imagine anyone ever forcing her into anything against her will. She clearly wasn’t going to go through with her betrothal to Robert Baratheon. If the prince had kidnapped her, it would’ve been obvious to anyone laying eyes on their travel through the Riverlands. She wouldn’t have been taken without a fight. Seeing as how she was a willing partner, it seems strange that it would be confused for a kidnapping.”

“Unless the person lied to Uncle Brandon, knowing it wasn’t really a kidnapping,” said Arya.

“I can’t think of anyone who would benefit from such a lie,” Howland replied. “It threw the world into chaos.”

Sansa’s mouth went dry, her guts twisted into a knot. She knew someone who had been fostered at Riverrun. Who had foolishly dueled with her uncle because of his jealousy over Brandon Stark’s betrothal to Catelyn Tully, and nearly died from his injuries. Who had then been sent away from Riverrun by Hoster Tully two weeks later, forcing him to return to the Vale. “It would benefit someone who was willing to do anything to stop Brandon from marrying my mother.”

He shook his head, and gave her a small smile. “That’s a very petty reason to make up such a serious accusation.”

“No reason could ever be petty enough for someone who would do such a thing,” she replied, her voice cold and angry. Sansa had no proof, but in her heart she knew. Who else had reason to tell such a blatant lie to her uncle Brandon? Who else would tell a lie that had the possibility for such terrible consequences? Someone who would only see the benefit to himself, and not the negative far-reaching effects to everyone else around him.

Arya frowned, her brows creasing with worry. “But what are the lords bannermen of House Stark going to say? They declared Jon the King in the North. They all think he’s Father’s son. Is being the son of Lyanna good enough? But if they knew he was the son of Rhaegar Targaryen… they’d take the title away from him, wouldn’t they?”

Taking a deep breath, Howland Reed then held up the other scroll he’d been holding in his hand. It looked worn, but the parchment was noticeably newer than the one that had belonged to Rhaegar. “Someone else made out a will.”

Sansa took the scroll from him and opened it. Her eyes widened as she read it, and they filled with tears. “How did you get this? Why had we never known of this before?”

“A raven arrived with it at Moat Cailin, and then it was delivered to me for safe keeping,” he replied. “It was too dangerous to let it be known before. Robb Stark had been killed and Roose Bolton had become Warden of the North. Jon Snow, being a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch, had vowed to give up all lands, inheritances, and titles, so it wouldn’t really have mattered. But if this will became known, even though Jon was at Castle Black…”

“The Boltons would’ve sent someone to the Wall to kill him,” Sansa finished.

Howland nodded. “It wouldn’t have surprised me to learn that they had done so anyway, without ever having that in their possession,” he said, pointing to the scroll in her hands. He gazed upon their faces, frowning and brows creasing with this newfound information they were trying to process.

Arya sighed. “Well, I don’t care whose son he is. Jon is my brother. He’ll always be my brother. And they can’t take King in the North away from him. I guess that’s all that matters, even if he is just our cousin now.”

Sansa, tears welling up in her eyes, turned and wrapped her arms around her sister, laughing as she clutched the two wills in her hands. She found she was crying tears of relief and happiness. “Let’s go home.”

“Does that mean Jon gets the Iron Throne and not Daenerys Stormborn, Queen of Never Ending Titles?” grumbled Arya. “Do you think he’ll still marry her?”

Howland Reed’s eyes went wide. They nodded, frowning. He swallowed. “There’s something else I have to tell you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO much to everyone who leaves such wonderful comments, sweet compliments, and well-thought-out and detailed reviews. I love feedback! I wish I had the time to reply to all right away, or the ability to give you the reply you deserve without giving away the whole plot. Haha. But I truly appreciate all the amazing comments and generous kudos. Thanks for the encouragement and support!


	24. The Stone And The Roots Are Strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The empty bowl slipped from his fingers and clattered on the cavern floor. 'I don't feel any different. What happens next?'
> 
> Leaf touched his hand. 'The trees will teach you. The trees remember.' He raised a hand, and the other singers began to move about the cavern, extinguishing the torches one by one. The darkness thickened and crept toward them.
> 
> 'Close your eyes,' said the three-eyed crow. 'Slip your skin, as you do when you join with Summer. But this time, go into the roots instead. Follow them up through the earth, to the trees upon the hill, and tell me what you see.'" ~ A Dance with Dragons, Bran III

He sat in the wooden chair in front of the stone hearth, the crackling fire filling the bedchamber with its warm, red glow. The door opened and he turned to see his friend enter the room, carrying two cups. She took the chair next to his and handed him a cup of ale. He drank and then grimaced, coughing at the taste. “You’d think after thousands of years of doing nothing but guarding a wall of ice, the Night’s Watch would’ve learned how to make something decent to drink,” he complained.

She looked slightly apprehensive before taking a sip from her own cup. She then gave him a look of disgust. “That’s a shame.”

Smiling, he gazed at her. She caught his eye, her mouth curving into a warm smile, her green eyes soft with affection. And not for the first time, nor probably the last, he wondered what Meera would say if he suddenly told her that he loved her. But who would ever wed a broken boy like him? Only the trees.

“How long will we stay at Castle Black?” she asked him.

“I don’t know,” he said with a sigh. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” His heart grieved for Hodor and Summer, for the children of the forest and the three-eyed raven, and depression had taken hold. Now there was no one to guide him, to explain what he should do with his newfound knowledge. Was he simply to watch events unfold and do nothing? Remain in a tree until he was so old that he’d lived beyond the normal life span of mortal men, until he was hanging onto life by a weak thread? But the raven had told him that his fate was not to become an old man in a tree. Then what was he to do? Watching the flames, his eyes soon drifted closed.

…and then he had suddenly returned to Winterfell. He was once again in the godswood looking down at his lord father from the face of the weirwood tree. Ned Stark was his younger self, brown hair pulled back from his face without even a fleck of grey in it. His head was bowed as he prayed. “Please let them grow up as brothers, with only love between them, and let my lady wife find it in her heart to forgive me.”

“Father,” he called out from the tree. His voice was a faint whisper on the wind, a rustle among the red leaves. “Father, it’s me. It’s Bran. Father, please!”

Lifting his head, Ned Stark stared at the carved face of the weirwood. He frowned, his brows creasing, but he did not speak back. Bran wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch his father, but the tree had no arms, no hands. It also could not talk, so neither could he. There was nothing he could do to make his father listen.

Ned Stark continued his prayer, his voice thick with emotion. “Help me to find the strength to keep the promises I made, and gods forgive me for the promises I broke.”

Bran’s eyes filled with hot tears. If he cried, would the weirwood cry? Would a red wetness stream from the eyes of the heart tree’s face? He knew the promises his lord father spoke of, those broken and kept, and he wanted nothing more than to comfort him. With the familiar clattering sound of wood smacking against wood, his father then dissolved like fading mist. A boy no older than fourteen years, like himself, but with dark curly hair and brown eyes, stood in front of the tree, grieved, his face sullen. Jon Snow. A girl approached, younger than the boy by about three years, with long red hair and bright blue eyes. _Sansa!_ Bran thought excitedly. He hadn’t seen his sister in so long.

“It’s natural to be jealous of Theon,” she said. “He _is_ trueborn, and highborn.”

“He's a shit.”

“But that’s no reason to go sulking into the godswood. Come back and play. We need a sixth.”

Jon Snow heaved a sigh of exasperation, but didn't reply.

Sansa Stark shook her head. “Well, have you even _thought_ about what you’re going to do when you come of age? Or where you’re going to go?”

“What I’m going to do?” he replied, frowning. “And I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying here in Winterfell.”

“To do what? Robb will be lord after Father. Theon is heir to the Iron Islands, as he just reminded you, so I suppose he’ll return home once his father dies. Arya and I will be wed, no doubt to a noble lord or possibly a knight, and we’ll leave Winterfell. Bran… I suppose Bran will wed some highborn daughter and gain lordship over her house. What are _you_ going to do?”

Jon Snow shrugged. “I haven’t thought about it.”

As if disbelieving his words, Sansa Stark narrowed her eyes at him. “Maybe you should.”

“Why do you care what I do? You almost sound worried about me.”

She blushed, and it was a moment before she replied. “Well... because you’re the son of Lord Eddard Stark, and you should do something worthy of such a privileged position. As a bastard, I know you don’t have many options. You'll never be a lord or a true knight, but... perhaps Father would give you some land. And then you could, I don’t know… do _something_ with it.”

He gave her a sarcastic look. “Like what? Get me some sheep and tend to them? Become a cowherd? Thanks for the friendly advice.”

She rolled her eyes, but then chewed her bottom lip, thinking, as she gazed at him. “You know, Uncle Benjen is a man of the Night’s Watch. In the songs, they’re called the black knights of the Wall. And from what I’ve heard the guards say, plenty of men on the Wall are baseborn, who only had whores for mothers, and some of them have risen to high places of command. You could do the same.”

“My mother was not a whore!” he spat angrily.

“What do _you_ know?” Sansa Stark replied, her voice cold as ice. “You know nothing, Jon _Snow.”_

He watched her turn around and walk away from him, before once again gazing at the weirwood. “My mother wasn’t a whore,” he whispered to the tree, his eyes becoming shiny and wet, before hanging his head. “I know she wasn’t. Father will not speak of her, but I dream about her. Sometimes I dream of her so often that I can almost see her face. In my dreams, my mother is beautiful, and highborn, with kind eyes and a sweet smile. And she loves me.” Tears were now streaming down his cheeks. As teardrops fell from his chin and hit the ground, Bran could taste the salt.

He desperately called out from inside the tree. “Jon! Jon, look up!"

Jon Snow lifted his head and gazed up at the red eyes in the tree, his own eyes narrowing suspiciously. He slowly started to back away from the weirwood, wiping the tears from his face.

Bran filled with frustrated anguish and began to shout. “No, Jon! Don’t leave! Please hear me! I have to tell you…”

The sounds of the crackling fire filled the chambers as Bran opened his eyes. He turned and saw Meera watching him. “You slipped your skin,” she said. “Where did you go this time?”

Sadness clutched at his heart. “The Winterfell godswood,” he said. It was always the weirwood in Winterfell lately, ever since he’d learned the truth about what had happened to his family so long ago. But there was still so much he had left to learn. Memories came back to him, of things said to him in the cave.

_“The trees will teach you,” Leaf had said. “The trees remember.”_

He looked over at Meera. “I know where I want to go, but I don't know if we can.”

She nodded, turning to look at the fire. "You want to go home." 

"There are things my bro..." He sighed. "Jon needs to know. The lord commander told us that Jon and Sansa have won back Winterfell. That's where he is." 

"But why do _you_ have to tell him?" she asked. "What about the Night King? And those wights? What's to be done about them?" 

Bran shook his head. "As long as the Wall stands, that's everyone's best protection. We have little to fear as long as the Wall protects us. And I must tell Jon Snow. Who else can? There's nothing I can do about the Night King." He'd been convinced that he'd learn some strange magic power, that one day he'd walk again or maybe become a knight. He'd learned to become one with the trees, to fly through the ages of time, to see things long forgotten, to learn secrets long hidden. But he was the same broken boy he'd been when he'd left home, and he had no real power to stop the Night King.

Meera played with her fingers, feeling anxious. She thought of the Night King's mark on Bran's arm, and had a bad feeling about going to Winterfell, but she had no idea of what else they were to do.

*****

It was just past midnight, and Tyrion stood looking out the shuttered window in his bedchambers, sipping from a cup of Arbor golden wine. He looked out over the west bank of the river. The Ironborn kept moving about between their camp and their ships docked on the bank. His stomach tightened, worrying that they were indeed about to embark on a raid. He wondered at what Daenerys had truly discussed with Yara Greyjoy.

Allowing the Ironborn to murder, rob, and rape their way through the Riverlands wouldn’t endear her to the hearts of the people. It’s possible they had requested the right to go raiding and the queen had denied them. He wouldn’t put it past the Ironborn to defy a Targaryen ruler, even one with dragons. They’d certainly done it before. It was often said that the people of the Iron Islands had a willful nature. But in his opinion, there was a thousand leagues’ worth of difference between willful and stupid.

He walked across the large bedchamber into the adjoining solar that contained an oval table made of oak with four matching chairs. Platters of fruits and breads and hard cheeses along with flagons of wine adorned the table top. He approached that room’s shuttered window. This one looked out across the river to the east bank. The heavy rains of the past week had overflown both banks of the Green Fork, and had claimed a few carelessly placed tents in the Lannister and Baratheon camps. He watched them start to take their tents down, no doubt hoping to move their camp further back from the river.

Jon Snow had made his camp well back from the east castle’s walls, on higher, drier ground. The young man wasn’t just brave and strong, he was smart. His sons would be strong and smart as well. It was a shame he’d never have any. Not with Daenerys, anyway. He could always father bastards, like many a king before him. But Tyrion remembered one night back in Winterfell all those years ago when the poor lad had been adamant to the point of being near tears that he would never father a bastard. It would’ve been easy to blame this sentiment on the unwavering honor of House Stark, but he knew it was much more personal than that. Jon Snow hated being a bastard, was tormented by it, and refused to inflict such a thing on a child. No wonder he went to the Wall and took the Night’s Watch vow.

Taking another sip of wine, Tyrion noticed that there also appeared to be some movement about the House Stark camp, but it was difficult to tell in the dark, even with the full moon in the night sky. They didn’t have many torches or fires lit tonight up on the hill across the river. He thought of the looks shared between Jon Snow and Sansa Stark at the welcoming feast the previous night. Most people in attendance wouldn’t have picked up on anything untoward, but his own eyes were trained. Most people would tell him he was mad, that he was seeing things that weren’t there, that Jon Snow and Sansa Stark _would never._ But perhaps the honor of House Stark wasn’t so unwavering after all. It was Lord Eddard Stark himself who bedded Jon Snow’s mother, whoever she was. And yet, that did not seem like something he would have done.

In all his time spent in King’s Landing, a thousand leagues away from Lady Catelyn, Ned Stark never once visited a brothel, never once accepted a bedwarmer. He seemed to be a man who took his vows seriously, who kept his promises faithfully. He had been the most honorable person in the whole damn capital. And he’d foolishly died for it. Maybe Jon Snow was smarter than that. Maybe he knew when to hold tight to his honor, and when to loosen his grip. And if anything could help him loosen it, the hauntingly beautiful vulnerability of Sansa Stark certainly could, along with the rich autumn auburn of her hair and the deep Tully blue of her eyes.

Sansa Stark was no longer the frightened maid of fourteen years Tyrion had been forced to marry so long ago. She was now a grown woman, and from what he’d gathered upon his return to Westeros, she’d been dragged through the seven hells by some monster by the name of Ramsay Bolton. She’d always had a quiet strength in King’s Landing, and she’d quickly learned how to play the game in order to stay alive, but there was a cold fierceness about her now that hadn’t been there before. Desperate to escape the Bolton beast, she’d leapt from Winterfell’s battlements, a fall that should’ve killed her, and ran north, escaping to the Wall. And there was Jon Snow, her knight in black armor, who no doubt was the first man in years to treat her decently.

Yes, Tyrion could see it. Everyone else could call him mad, but they didn’t understand the base nature of people like he did. And he knew the secret yearnings of Jon Snow’s heart. They weren’t so different from his. Most bastards and broken boys all craved the same things. It was no surprise to him that Jon Snow wanted Sansa Stark. He’d wanted her himself, he admitted. He’d wanted everything his father Tywin had promised him – to be the lord of a great castle like Winterfell, to rule the North, to have a beautiful lady wife, and children to call his own.

And yet, he believed that like his honorable lord father, the bastard would be true to his marriage vows. Tyrion just needed this pact between Daenerys and Jon Snow to be solidified. Time was of the essence. As his thoughts turned to his queen, he heard the door to his chambers open. He turned to see her move into the doorway of the solar, wearing an ivory linen gown, and thought she looked sad and anxious.

“I had that dream again,” Dany said, stepping into the room and making her way over to sit at the table in the chair closest to the window where her Hand stood.

“Which one, Your Grace?” he replied. “You have quite a few, the next one stranger than the last.”

She gazed at him from where she sat. “The same one I had when I was at the House of the Undying in Qarth, and I’ve been having every night since I arrived at the Twins. I’m in the throne room of the Red Keep, and just as I’m about to touch the Iron Throne, snow begins to fall, as if a storm were inside. And then it fades to a wall of ice. There is a blue-eyed king who casts no shadow, holding a glowing red sword in his hand. The Undying start whispering all around me, blue and cold, reaching for me, pulling my clothes from me with their cold hands, entwining their fingers in my hair. Then I feel cold hands on my bare breasts. A cold mouth on my throat, my face, licking, sucking, biting, kissing with blue lips. I have no strength to fight them. Then I feel it thrust inside me, cold as ice. And as the sky turns from indigo to orange, the whispers of the Undying turn to screams. The dragon opens its mouth and fire flows from its jaws. Their cold flesh melts like the snow, their bones burn like dry wood. As the flames die, a blue flower starts growing from the wall of ice, filling the air with sweetness. And then I find Khal Drogo, my sun-and-stars, and my son Rhaego, who have been waiting for me to ride with them through the night lands.”

She sighed. “What do you think it means?”

Tyrion shook his head. How in the seven hells should he know? “I think it means you need a drink. Wine?”

Dany pursed her lips, unamused.

“Well…” He cleared his throat. “You’re closer than ever to gaining everything you’ve ever wanted – the Iron Throne – but you know how easily it can be taken from you. And you still mourn the loss of your husband, your son. These things are normal. But there’s nothing to fear as long as you strive to be the kind of queen that I know you can be, a queen who the people will love and trust.”

“Viserys had believed that the realm would rise for its rightful king,” she said. “Robert the Usurper killed my gallant and noble brother Rhaegar, whom the people loved, and yet the people did not rise up for Viserys, the trueborn son of King Aerys. But Viserys was a fool, and fools believe in foolish things.”

Tyrion stepped closer to her. “The people will support whoever they believe has the most power. When Rhaegar died, Viserys was but a small child. What chance did he have against Robert Baratheon’s armies? But the people remember the glory of the Targaryens, and the prosperity and peace of the realm when ruled by good kings. There were both good and bad rulers in your family. You have a real chance at being a good one. It’s just unfortunate that the Targaryen king within their most recent memory was your father.”

Dany stared at her hands in her lap. “The people said that Robert the Usurper was strong as a bull and fearless, a man who loved nothing more than battle. And beside him stood the great lords Viserys had called the Usurper’s dogs, Eddard Stark with his cold eyes and frozen heart, and the golden Lannisters, Tywin and Jaime, rich and powerful and treacherous. They brought my family to ruin. At one time I had doubted whether I’d be able to overthrow such men. Jorah once told me that the Usurper and his supporters would kill me, sure as sunrise. They did send assassins after me. How am I to know whether another usurper wouldn’t arise from among them? How am I to know whether their offspring wouldn’t seek to take the throne from me? Whether the bastard would seek to rise above the trueborn heir?”

“Am I to blame for all that Tywin Lannister had done?” he asked. “Are _you_ to blame for the actions of King Aerys? Would _you_ want the people to hold you responsible for what he did? So should Jon Snow be held accountable for what Ned Stark did? Or any of Robert Baratheon’s many bastards? And Jaime…” Catching her narrowed eyes in his direction, he paused. “Under all that armor and pride, my brother is a good man with a tender heart. You don’t know what he went through being a Kingsguard to your father, having to witness the cruelties of King Aerys and yet remain powerless to protect the innocent. Do you want to know how your mother, Queen Rhaella, was treated? What my brother had to witness and how it tortured him to stand by and do nothing?”

“The Kingsguard are sworn to protect the royal family, too,” she said indignantly. “That includes the queen and her children.”

He sighed. “Yes, the Kingsguard are also sworn to protect the queen, but _not_ from the king.”

Her eyes pricked with hot tears.

“We’ve both admitted that our fathers were bad men, vicious and cruel,” he said, stepping closer and taking her hand in his. “Yes, my brother killed your father the king. And I think he might’ve eventually killed him anyway, whether there had been a rebellion or not. Doing so saved thousands of innocent lives.”

“My father was killed before I was born, my wonderful brother Rhaegar too. My mother died bringing me into the world while the storm raged outside Dragonstone. Ser Willem Darry, who lovingly looked after us in Braavos, he died of sickness when I was still a young girl. My brother Viserys, Drogo who was my sun-and-stars, and my son – the gods took them all from me.” Her eyes shone with unshed tears, her face hardened as she thought of what Lord Baelish had told her. “But _no one_ will take my dragons. Never.”

Tyrion shook his head. “Who would ever take your dragons? That’s impossible. You are their mother.”

She averted her eyes, keeping silent. A knock on the door spared her from having to answer. The Hand of the Queen crossed the room to answer it and found an Unsullied guard standing there with a young stable boy. “Yes?”

“Lord Tyrion, I bring a message from Lord Varys. He wishes for you to meet him on the crossing bridge.”

“At this hour?” he replied with some annoyance. He sighed, turning to walk back over to Daenerys. He then took her hand in his once again and spoke reassuringly. “No one will take your dragons from you. Jaime, the children of Ned Stark, the bastards of Robert Baratheon – they are _not_ your enemies. They are not to blame for the actions of their fathers any more than you are. And you will need their support if you want to win over the Seven Kingdoms peacefully.”

Her stomach twisted into knots of guilt, and her throat tightened. “Tyrion,” she whispered tearfully. “I’ve… I’ve done something terrib…”

Before she could finish, the stable boy called out to her Hand. “Lord Varys said the matter was important, m'lord.”

“I’m coming,” he answered, before turning to his queen. “Try and get some sleep, Your Grace. If not, then I’ll be back as soon as I can. Just wait here for me.”

Dany nodded, not meeting his eyes, and then watched him leave the bedchamber, staring as he shut the door behind him.

*****

In the morning, Bran woke in the makeshift bed prepared for him on the floor next to the featherbed that Meera slept in. While the brothers of the Night’s Watch had offered them each their own chambers, they’d refused to be separated. Neither of them had forgotten what had nearly happened to them at Craster’s Keep, and neither wanted to let the other out of their sight for very long. While Lord Commander Dolorous Edd seemed trustworthy enough and spoke highly of both Jon Snow’s command and friendship, they were determined to be cautious.

After washing using the water in the basin and dressing, Meera returned to the bedchamber when he had finished. Some minutes later, two men of the Watch arrived to assist them to the common hall to breakfast with the lord commander. They were soon seated around an oak table, and a high straight-backed chair had been found for Bran to sit. They ate a meal of boiled eggs, black sausage, and apples stewed with prunes.

“Never trust a cook,” grumbled Edd. “They’ll try to force prunes down your throat no matter how many times you tell them you’ll have none.”

A raven flew over their heads, shrieking, before perching in a nearby windowsill. “Corn! Corn! Corn!”

The lord commander seethed in annoyance. “Always with the corn. I’m going to roast that raven and have _him_ for breakfast.”

A few moments later, a guard entered carrying two scrolls and approached the table. “Two ravens arrived for you this morning, my lord.”

Edd reached for the two scrolls, one bore the familiar seal of the maesters at the Citadel. “Sam,” he said under his breath. The other bore the direwolf of House Stark. He glanced at Bran before quickly removing the pale white wax seal and opening the letter. It didn’t take long to read. “Your brother, Jon Snow, the King in the North, and your sister, Lady Sansa Stark, are departing for the Riverlands along with their lords bannermen. There’s to be a council meeting between the Great Houses of Westeros.”

“King!” the raven screamed. “King!”

“That bloody bird.” He turned and threw a stewed prune at it. It shrieked and flew away.

Bran’s brows furrowed in confusion. “The Riverlands? But you said that he and Sansa had just reclaimed Winterfell.”

The lord commander nodded. “Aye, they did, last we’d heard. But apparently he’s riding south.” He returned to the letter and continued reading. “Also, Daenerys Targaryen, daughter of King Aerys, will be present at this great gathering and word has it that she’s got three dragons with her.”

“Did you say Daenerys?” Bran replied, his eyes widening. He exchanged a look with Meera, who chewed her lip.

“Yeah,” he answered, looking back down at the letter. “She’s likely returned to the realm to take back the Iron Throne. Can’t see much of anyone complaining about that, personally. No one wants Cersei Lannister on it. Those dragons are worrisome, though.” Edd looked up. “Do you know anything about her?”

His mouth went dry, and he swallowed. “Uh… no. I, um, just thought all the Targaryens were dead.”

Meera glanced at him uneasily, and then changed the subject. “Father told us again and again that there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

“If Jon Snow and my sister have left Winterfell, then who’s protecting the castle?” Bran asked the lord commander.

“Tormund Giantsbane,” he answered, glancing back down at the letter. “Along with about a thousand other wildlings, I’m sure.”

He gave a look of surprise. “Jon has left Winterfell in the care of wildlings?”

Edd shrugged. A few of his brothers chuckled. “They made him their new King-Beyond-the-Wall,” said Leathers, Castle Black’s master-at-arms. “And then they followed him south of it.”

“Your brother once told me a story that pointed to the Starks and the wildlings being kin,” said the lord commander. “Leathers here confirmed it. The tale is well-known beyond the Wall.”

“Kin?” replied Bran, his expression one of disbelief. “I’ve never heard that before.”

He nodded, shrugging. “Your brother took a wildling woman for himself, and she told him all about this tale. It was quite famous beyond the Wall. Songs were written about it and everything. Do you want to hear the tale?”

Smiling, Bran and Meera nodded.

“There once was a wilding raider named Bael the Bard. The lord of the North at the time, Lord Brandon Stark, once called Bael a coward. To take revenge of this insult and prove his courage, Bael climbed the Wall, took the kingsroad and entered Winterfell disguised as a singer named Sygerrik, which meant ‘deceiver’ in the Old Tongue. He sang until midnight for Lord Brandon. Impressed by his skills as a singer, Lord Stark asked him what he wanted as a reward, and Bael just asked for the most beautiful flower blooming in Winterfell's gardens. As the blue winter roses were just blooming, Lord Stark offered him one. But the following morning, the maiden daughter of the lord had disappeared, and in her empty bed was that blue winter rose on her pillow.”

“Lord Brandon then sent the members of the Night's Watch looking for them beyond the Wall, but they never found neither Bael nor the girl. For nearly a year they searched, but could not find either of them. Lord Stark became known as Brandon the Daughterless. He lost heart and simply went up to his bedchamber, to lay and die, with no other children to carry on his name. Then one day he heard a babe’s cry. His daughter was back in her chamber, holding an infant.”

Bran’s eyes went wide. “Bael brought her back to Winterfell?”

Leathers shook his head. “They had actually never left Winterfell, and had stayed hidden in the crypts under the castle. The songs say that the girl loved Bael so much, she bore him a son. And that he left the son behind as payment to Lord Stark for the rose he’d stolen. Bael eventually became the King-Beyond-the-Wall and his bastard with Brandon’s daughter grew up to become the new Lord Stark, saving the line from extinction. So Bael’s blood runs through the Starks _and_ the wildlings.”

“But that story is in none our family’s records,” he replied. “I’ve never heard that before. No one has ever spoken of it.”

“I know that the honor of House Stark is legendary,” Edd remarked with a grin. “But would you put it past any of your lords to erase some details in their history they might be ashamed of?”

Bran’s throat tightened and his stomach tied into a knot, his mind filling with some of those details. “No.”

Nodding, the lord commander then gave his attention to the scroll that had been sent from the Citadel. He quickly read it before folding it and placing it inside his cloak. “Uh… Samwell Tarly, another good friend of your brother’s, is studying in Old Town to become a maester for the Night’s Watch. He thinks he’s found something useful to our fight and has received permission to travel to Dorne.”

Eyes widening, Meera and Bran exchanged looks. “What’s in Dorne?” she asked.

Shrugging, his shook his head. “Sam didn’t say,” Edd replied. “Just ‘something useful.’”

“We need to make for Winterfell,” Bran said. “With Jon and Sansa gone, a Stark must be there. And there are things that Jon needs to know.”

“That’s a long journey for any man, and especially a young boy and girl. You’d need a horse, and without use of your legs, I don’t know how you can ride.”

He nodded. “But I was able to ride back home. They made a special saddle for me.”

The men looked at their lord commander. Edd sighed. “Any brother of Jon Snow is a brother of mine. We’ll do what we can to help you.”

The brothers of the Night’s Watch smiled, and nodded their heads affirmatively. Bran felt a sense of relief, but at the same time a knot of anxiety tightened in his chest.

*****

They were quickly breaking camp. The tents had been quietly lowered and packed away, and the horses had been saddled and bridled. Jon and his three guards walked from the east bank and up the hill, approaching the small group that stood together waiting for him. His lords bannermen were there as well as Brienne of Tarth and Podrick Payne, Ser Davos, Bronn, Edmure Tully and the other river lords, Ser Jaime Lannister and his lords bannermen of the Westerlands. They all bowed their heads at the arrival of the King in the North and the Trident.

Jon turned to address the lords of the Westerlands and Riverlands. “As you can see, House Stark is breaking camp. I’m sure you’ve been told the reason why. We are heading back north. You are free to do as you wish. I am not sure what this break with Daenerys Targaryen might mean for us…”

“War?” The fear in Podrick’s face was evident.

“I hope it will not come to that,” Jon replied. “No one would dare attack the North without all the power of the Seven Kingdoms behind them, and that is something Daenerys will never have. She has dragons, to be sure. But dragons are not invincible, as the Targaryens learned before to their own sorrow.”

Jaime sighed. “Let me go and speak with my brother. There is no way he would agree to this plot. He could convince Daenerys to see reason.”

Crossing his arms against his chest, Jon shook his head. “Whether he knows of the plot or not, whether he could change her mind or not doesn’t matter. It was a mistake to leave the North at all. I'm not concerned with the Iron Throne. My main reason for coming to the Riverlands was to gain support in fighting the White Walkers. The Others are coming, and it’s the North that will receive the first blow. And if the North falls, the realm will follow.”

“What do you command the river lords to do, Your Grace?” asked Edmure Tully.

“Don’t concern yourselves with Cersei Lannister or Daenerys Targaryen’s fight for the throne,” Jon replied. “Man your strongholds with as much Valyrian steel swords as you can find. Equip your battlements with catapults. We can fight the Others and their wights with fire and steel.”

Edmure shook his head. “But you just said the North will receive the initial blow. We can’t just sit inside our castles and wait, Your Grace. We will ride north with our king and fight beside you. We cannot allow the North to fall. If that happens, the Riverlands will have no hope.” The other river lords all nodded in agreement.

Heaving a sigh, Jon’s brows creasing with anxiety. “Do you know what it is that you’re offering? The journey to Winterfell is long and arduous. The North is a harsh place in winter, and that’s even without the threat of war.”

The lords bannermen of the Westerlands all looked to Jaime Lannister. He turned and caught their serious gaze, and they all silently nodded. He sighed, and turned back to look at the young king. “The Westerlands are with you as well.”

“Going somewhere, my lords?” spoke a voice in a cloying tone.

They all turned to see Lord Varys standing there as well as Tyrion Lannister. Jon locked eyes with Tyrion, his face hardening. He then spoke to the lords of the Westerlands and Riverlands. “Leave us. Tell your soldiers as quickly and as quietly as possible, and have them make ready. We will be departing shortly. If they are not ready when we leave, tell them to simply ride north to the kingsroad and head for the Neck. They will see us there.” They quickly dispersed. When Jaime Lannister turned to go as well, he grabbed his arm. “You stay.”

Jaime heaved a deep breath, and turned back to face their unexpected visitors. Bronn, Brienne, and Podrick moved to stand near him while Davos stepped closer to Jon.

Tyrion looked between Jon Snow and his brother. “Not staying for the great council meeting tomorrow?”

“There isn’t going to be a great council,” Jon answered. “We are not going to contest Daenerys Targaryen’s right to the Iron Throne. Nor are we going to concern ourselves with how to take it from Queen Cersei. There are more serious matters at hand that require our immediate attention. I did not ride south to the Riverlands to strike up marriage alliances and play games for a throne that I care nothing about. If Daenerys doesn’t want to aid us in our fight against the White Walkers and would rather squabble over an iron chair, then so be it. We will do the fighting ourselves.”

“Of course we want to aid you,” said Tyrion, his voice full of frustration. “I’ve already spoken with Her Grace about sending supplies of dragonglass to the North from the large deposits at Dragonstone. She _wants_ to help you. She is _going_ to help you.”

He almost laughed. “She has a strange way of showing just how much she wants to _help_.”

Jaime shook his head at his younger brother, almost in sympathy. “Do you know what Daenerys has done?”

Before Tyrion could reply, a young boy came running up the hill and shouting, clutching two scrolls of parchment in his hand. “Lord Varys! Lord Varys!”

The eunuch took some steps forward and took one scroll from the boy’s outstretched hand, while Tyrion took the other. They quickly opened them and read the words. The eyes of Varys widened. “Ships carrying casks of wildfire have left King’s Landing and are sailing for Dragonstone.”

Tyrion heaved a sigh. “Ten thousand Braavosi sellswords are marching north to the Riverlands.”

Jaime’s eyes went wide. “Cersei.”

“Of course, the fickle cunt,” said Tyrion, handing the letter to the eunuch. “I dare say you’ve made her very angry, brother. Good. Anger makes her stupid. The angrier she gets, the stupider her decisions. Cersei is as wise as Mad King Aerys. She rides with the sellswords. Only anger could make her do something so stupid as to leave the Red Keep.”

“Someone who is angry and stupid is much easier to handle than someone calm and cunning,” said Varys, reading the scroll.  

“The sellswords no doubt have wagons of wildfire,” Jaime guessed.

His brother chuckled. “Of course they would. She wouldn’t strike against dragons without it. But again, another stupid decision.”

Brows creasing with worry, Jaime nodded. “Many people will die unnecessarily. Wildfire is not controllable.” He swallowed, and then turned to Jon, quickly glancing at Brienne before speaking. “I know I said that I would go north, and I promise that the Westerlands’ armies will ride with you, but let me ride south, Your Grace. Let me go to Cersei. I might be able to make her see reason, to see the folly of her actions.”

Jon glanced at Tyrion and Varys, before nodding and taking Jaime aside, walking several feet away. He then motioned for Brienne to join them. He paused, wondering if he could truly trust them, and then went with his gut feelings. “You both swore an oath to protect my sister.”

“Yes,” Jaime and Brienne said in unison.

“Sansa has run away to the Neck,” he told the Lord of Casterly Rock in a hushed, serious tone. “I dare say before long, if things go as I hope they will, she’ll eventually be taken to Moat Cailin. Arya as well. If you must ride south to meet Cersei, then I will not stop you. But if you cannot succeed, I beg of you to turn around and return north. Ride to Moat Cailin. If I have already passed on, and there has been no word of my sisters, continue north on the kingsroad and make for Winterfell. But if my sisters are there, or if the crannogmen have them and they will soon arrive at the stronghold, wait for them and escort them safely back to Winterfell. Will you do this for me?”

Brienne nodded firmly. “We will hold to the oaths we swore, Your Grace.”

Jaime looked the king square in the face. “I will do all that I can to protect the daughters of Catelyn Stark. And when I agreed to the marriage contract, I was serious. You may turn your back on the pact with Daenerys, which is no doubt the rightful thing to do. But Lady Sansa has done nothing to cause me to break faith with her, to end our betrothal. I will keep my word to wed her and cast off my name so that the Stark line may continue.”

Jon stared at him, and swallowed against the tightness forming in his throat. He didn’t know what to say, and his guts twisted with thoughts of Sansa and their love. After a moment, he merely nodded. “That’s very honorable of you, ser.”

“I request to ride with Ser Jaime,” said Brienne. “He shouldn’t have to go alone. We will then ride for Moat Cailin and wait for Lady Sansa and Lady Arya together. I imagine Ser Bronn will want to join us as well as Podrick.”

“Very well. Take a direwolf banner with you. You’ll need it when you enter the Neck.”

They then stepped back over to Tyrion and Varys. Jaime looked down at his younger brother. “Are you sure you’ve picked the right side?”

Averting his eyes, Tyrion felt confused. “I see no reason why Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Snow can’t be on the same side. They’ve already formed an alliance.”

Jaime closed his eyes, sighing. “Well, brother, do you have any words for our sister?”

“Tell my sister…” Tyrion smirked, and then his expression turned serious. “Tell my sister that a Lannister always pays his debts. And I’ll be paying mine with dragons.”

Nodding silently, he turned away, locking eyes with Brienne, and they started to move away from the place where the camp of House Stark had once been erected. Podrick and Bronn then followed. Jaime knew the time would eventually come when he’d have to face Cersei. _“Come at once,”_ she had written, in the letter he’d burned months ago when he’d arrived back at Riverrun on his way north to the Twins from King’s Landing. _“Daenerys Targaryen has returned to Westeros with three dragons and seeks to destroy me. I need you now like I have never needed you before. Help me. I love you. I love you. Come back to me.”_

He had no doubt that she truly needed him. But as for her love… confessing to fucking Lancel and who knows how many others, the mass murder of everyone inside the Sept of Baelor and countless others in the surrounding areas of the city, their innocent son throwing himself from his tower and her lack of true remorse, the other horrific actions she was guilty of since taking the Iron Throne. Jaime knew that he could not hope to help Cersei, to save her from herself. But he had to confront her all the same. There was a tremendous amount of relief, and also confusion, knowing that Brienne would be going with him.

A guard walked over with Jon’s horse, saddled and bridled, handing the reins to the king. “Thank you, Errold.”

“You can’t leave!” Tyrion said with wide eyes. “You just heard me say that an army marches on the Riverlands.”

“Who else can help her but the King in the North? The people will fight for _you_ ,” insisted Lord Varys. “With both an army invading from the south and ships sailing for Dragonstone with wildfire, the queen will be needing assistance. You cannot go.”

“Are you two going to stop me? Their quarrel is with the dragon queen, I think,” said Jon, pulling the reins back over the stallion’s head, running his hand along its beautiful grey coat. He then turned and stared at Tyrion Lannister, his face hardening. “Ten thousand sellswords from Braavos? I have one hundred men with me. If you thought I’d be willing to send them south to the slaughter just to help Daenerys, you thought wrong.”

“But you are her betrothed!” he replied indignantly as he glanced to see Ser Davos Seaworth and the lords bannermen of House Stark mount their own horses. “You swore to an alliance!”

Shaking his head, he grasped hold of the reins and the flowing mane as black as maester’s ink, placed his foot in the stirrup, and then swung himself up onto the horse’s back. “Consider our contract broken,” he said. “Daenerys sounds more proud than wise, and more like a frightened girl, a stubborn, willful child rather than a queen. And the Ironborn are just as foolishly proud, just as willful and stubborn, which she’ll learn to her own exasperation. Sending them against us was a mistake. So, my lord Tyrion, feel free to tell your queen that Jon Snow sends his regards.”

He then moved the horse forward, closer to the dwarf and away from his smirking lords bannermen. Tyrion looked startled, quickly moving backwards, and threw an uneasy glance up at the horse’s rider. Jon leaned over slightly, fixing his gaze on the little man, and spoke quietly, his voice hard as steel. “You tell Daenerys that I know exactly who I am. You tell her that I don’t _want_ that fucking throne. And if she wants to erase House Stark from the world, she’ll just have to come north. We’ll see who has the advantage then, even with those dragons of hers.”

With the full moon shining over their heads in the night sky, Tyrion and Varys stared helplessly as Jon Snow and one hundred northmen began riding away from the Twins. Frowning, the Hand of the Queen shook his head incredulously. “What in the seven hells has Daenerys done?”

*****

Packed for their departure, Bran and Meera soon joined the lord commander and some of his brothers for breakfast in the common hall. They were still very curious about the young Stark lord and his abilities. “So you just… see whatever things the trees have seen?” one of them asked.

“That’s part of it,” he answered. “I don’t know how to explain. It started out as just being able to see what the weirwood trees can see, and flashes of all that they’ve seen in the past. Gradually I was able to see a lot more, even if a weirwood was never present. Then one night I saw everything. The history of the world flashed before my eyes.” He paused, sadness and regret filling his chest like a dull ache at the memory of all that Meera had told him – the Others entering the cave, Summer running to her death to protect him, Leaf sacrificing herself so they could escape, and Hodor. Thinking about Hodor was too painful. “I’m still trying to sort it all out. There’s been some times since that happened where I’ve been able to consciously choose what I want to see, and the trees take me there.”

“How long were you north of the Wall?” asked Edd.

Bran shrugged. “A couple years, I think. It was difficult to keep track of time in the cave.”

The lord commander nodded. “Did you by chance ever see the village of Whitetree on your travels north?”

Meera glanced at her friend, before they both shook their heads. “No,” she answered. “Why?”

“The village is named after its great weirwood,” Edd replied. “Your brother, Jon Snow, and I came across the village when Lord Commander Mormont led three hundred sworn brothers north beyond the Wall. It ended in disaster, o’ course.” He paused, remembering the catastrophe at the Fist of the First Men and the mutiny at Craster’s Keep. “But early on in the great ranging, we came across this abandoned village that had once been the home to some wildling families. It wasn’t much of a village, just four one-room houses with sod roofs and windows shuttered with pieces of animal hide. The houses were all empty when we got there, the wildings gone as well as their possessions. We found many villages like that. No sign of a fight. I suppose they’d up and joined Mance Rayder’s army. I guess they’re part of Jon Snow’s army now, if they’re still living. There’s always the chance they’re… not. And if that’s the case, it was the Night King that took ‘em.”

Edd sighed. He didn’t want to think about that. It was bad enough to know that some awful ending was probably coming without thinking about it too much beforehand. “But above these abandoned houses was the biggest tree we’d ever seen, the trunk about eight feet wide, and the pale branches with their blood red leaves spread so far out that the entire village was shaded beneath it. And the face…” He closed his eyes, shaking his head at the memory. “The carved face was monstrous, and the mouth was a jagged hollow large enough to swallow a sheep. I couldn’t wait to leave that dark place.”

_“Never fear the darkness, Bran. The strongest trees are rooted in the dark places of the earth. Darkness will be your cloak, your shield, your mother's milk. Darkness will make you strong.”_

That was something the three-eyed raven had said to him, he remembered. But the darkness still filled him with fear. He wanted to go far from the darkness. He wanted to go home.

Meera chewed her lip, thinking, and then looked at Edd. “Who is the Night King? Where did he come from?”

The Night’s Watch brothers exchanged uneasy looks. Edd sighed. “He was the thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. While serving as lord commander, he fell in love with a woman with skin as white as snow and eyes like blue stars. He became obsessed, and chased her. Eventually he caught her and loved her. He lay with her, even though her skin was cold as ice, and when he gave his seed to her, he also gave up his soul. He brought her back to the Nightfort on the Wall and declared himself King of the Night’s Watch. She became his corpse queen.”

“She was a White Walker?” Meera replied with wide eyes.

“Aye, she was,” Edd answered grimly. “They ruled the Night’s Watch for thirteen dark years, and during those years horrific atrocities were committed. It was a reign of terror. No one could bring the Night’s King and his queen down. Not until Brandon the Breaker, King in the North and Lord of Winterfell, and Joramun, the wildling King-Beyond-the-Wall, joined forces. The corpse queen was destroyed, the Night’s King was brought down, and the Night’s Watch was finally freed. It was discovered that the Night’s King had been making human sacrifices to the Others. Brandon the Breaker then had all records of him destroyed and his very name became forbidden, and then forgotten. But… many people believe that his name had once been Stark.”

The room was silent for some moments. “But if the Night’s King was destroyed thousands of years ago…” Meera said.

“There’s no reason to believe this Night King that now leads the Others is the same king that had once been lord commander of the Night’s Watch,” Edd replied. “They’ve most likely made themselves a new king.” He paused, considering. “But… I suppose he could be the same one. When the thirteenth lord commander lay with the White Walker woman and surrendered his soul, he probably became just like her – ice cold, soulless and heartless. It’s possible that even though his reign over the Wall was brought down, he didn’t actually perish, and simply escaped far north to the Land of Always Winter.”

A memory then stirred within Bran, but it was hazy and he couldn’t place it. Once breakfast was finished, they gathered outside in the courtyard. A young horse with a jet black coat had been trained over the past two weeks using the special saddle that the men of the Night’s Watch had made. Meera would hold the reins while Bran sat behind her. Some brothers had been astounded at how quickly the black filly had learned to take the oversized saddle and two riders, at how the horse would do whatever the young Stark lord wanted with just the simplest spoken commands.

With his legs unable to grip the sides of the horse, the swaying motion had made Bran feel unsteady at first, but the large saddle with the high back and Meera sitting in front cradled him comfortably. The leather straps around his thighs and chest would hold him in place, not allowing him to fall, and riding had soon felt natural, like when he’d practiced as a boy in Winterfell’s courtyard. And now he was to make the journey of over two hundred leagues back to his home. They’d most likely arrive in a month’s time, and that was if the horse was able to go an allotted twenty miles each day.

Lord Commander Edd and the brothers of the Night’s Watch wished them well, and bade them to send their greetings to Jon Snow and even Tormund Giantsbane. Bran smiled and assured them that he would do so. After he and Meera thanked the Night’s Watch for their hospitality and protection, the gate to the kingsroad began to rise. “Go,” he whispered to the horse as Meera nudged its sides with her heels. The horse then stepped forward and they started walking through the gate.

As soon as they had cleared the gate, a general dark cloud began to cover the sky to the north. The sun had gone and the day suddenly turned grey and gusty. The cold bite of the winter wind began to blow hard, as if a storm was brewing. “A snow sky,” Edd announced grimly.

Bran felt the sudden rush of bitter cold wind, and then his forearm burned like ice. He reflexively reached over to grasp his arm, knowing it was the spot where the Night King had grabbed hold of him, leaving the imprint of a blue hand-mark. And then he remembered. The hazy memory suddenly became clear, and the vision returned to him. He’d fallen from the tower in Winterfell and was lying in a coma when the three-eyed raven had first come to him.

_He’d seen the Wall shining like blue crystal, and Jon Snow sleeping alone in a cold bed. And then he’d looked past the Wall, past endless forests cloaked in snow, past the frozen shore and the great blue-white rivers of ice and the dead plains where nothing grew or lived. North and north and north he had looked, to the curtain of light at the end of the world, and then beyond that curtain. He’d looked deep into the heart of winter, and what he saw had filled him with great fear. He’d cried out and his tears had burned hotly on his cheeks._

Now you know, _the three-eyed crow had whispered to him._ Now you know why you must live. Because winter is coming.

_He’d looked down at the Land of Always Winter. There had been nothing below him but snow and cold and death, a dark frozen wasteland where jagged blue-white spires of ice had waited to greet him. They’d flown up at him like spears, and he’d seen the bones of a thousand other dreamers impaled upon them. He had been desperately afraid of the death and darkness. But the three-eyed raven had told him that he had to choose. He had to face his fears and fly, or die. He’d then spread his arms and flew._

Bran closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he felt tears pricking behind his lids, and then opened them. “Turn around,” he whispered to the horse. The black filly immediately started to heed his command. “We’re going the wrong way.”

“Turn around?” Meera’s green eyes went wide. “I thought we’re going to Winterfell?”

“We have to go north,” he replied, his guts twisting into knots. “We never should’ve gone south of the Wall.”

Her heart plummeted into her stomach, but she only nodded. She found she wasn’t surprised. “I know. I think I’ve always known.”

They passed back through the gate, the brothers of the Night’s Watch staring at them in confusion. “I need to go back beyond the Wall,” Bran told them. “Open the tunnel gates. And direct us toward the village of Whitetree.”

Minutes later, they were riding down the long, twisting tunnel through the Wall. Three iron gates which blocked the inner passage were raised along with the outer door made of solid oak, nine inches thick. Once they’d passed through, they gazed about the snowy landscape, the winter wind still howling around them.

Meera took a steadying breath. “But what about Winterfell? Your sister and Jon Snow went south to the Riverlands. There is no Stark there to defend it. There must always be a Stark within its walls.”

“The stone is strong,” he said to her. “The roots of the godswood trees go deep, and underneath the ground the old Kings of Winter still sit upon their carved thrones. As long as they remain, Winterfell will always remain. The stone is strong, Meera.”

She could only nod, her throat tightening as they rode toward the tree line of the haunted forest. “Are you afraid?” she finally choked out.

His heart had filled with fear, but also determination, as the air around them grew even colder. “Yes.”

Soon the snow-covered trees of the haunted forest surrounded them. _“Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?”_ he said to himself, remembering the question he’d once asked, long ago, on that day they’d found the orphaned direwolf pups.

And then Bran heard his father’s voice reply to him. _“That is the only time a man can be brave.”_ It was a whisper on the wind, a rustling among the leaves.


	25. Battles Won And Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'I have fought beside the Young Wolf in every battle,' Dacey Mormont said cheerfully. 'He has not lost one yet.'
> 
>  _No, but he has lost everything else,_ Catelyn thought, but it would not do to say it aloud." ~ A Storm of Swords, Catelyn V

Continuing on their trail through the haunted forest, Bran and Meera passed by several abandoned villages until they stepped beyond the tree line and into a large clearing. Their eyes widened. They didn’t think Whitetree was much of a village. It was exactly as how the brothers of the Night’s Watch had described it – four dilapidated one-room houses of stone, made without any mortar, surrounded by an empty sheepfold and a well. The houses had sod roofs and the windows were shuttered with ragged pieces of animal hide. But a monstrous great weirwood with dark red leaves attached to pale branches loomed large above them.

Lord Commander Edd had also not exaggerated the size of the tree. It was the biggest tree they had ever seen. The branches were spread so far out that the entire village, houses, sheepfold, and well, was shaded beneath their snow-capped, red leafy canopy. The face of the tree was unlike any weirwood he had seen before, the mouth especially. The eyes were red and menacing, and the mouth was no simple gash into the wood, but a large, jagged hollow carved out of the tree. A person could probably fit inside it.

 _“That_ is an old tree,” said Meera, eyes wide as she sat gripping the reins. The horse whickered.

“And powerful.” Bran could feel the power. His heart pounded in his chest, goose pimples rose on his skin, and it felt as if his blood was singing. He had never felt a tree so powerful, and he hadn’t even touched it. They sat on the edge of the village, just beyond the well, and it was as though the tree was calling to him. _“There is a power in living wood,”_ Jojen Reed had told him. _“A power strong as fire. To me the gods gave the green dreams, and to you… you could be more than me. You are the winged wolf, and there is no saying how far and high you might fly.”  
_

“We’re going to make a new cave, Meera,” Bran said.

She creased her brows in disbelief. “But how? We have no tools for cutting. Hollowing out a cave would take weeks if not months, and that’s if it was done by people who actually knew what they were doing. How are _we_ to do it?”

A smile spread across his face. “We’re not the ones who are going to do it.”

“Then who is? I don’t understand. And what if _they_ come? We need to find some kind of protection before nightfall.”

“We’ll have that, too,” he said confidently. “Just get me over to the heart tree and let me grab hold of the roots.”

Nodding, swallowing back the lump that had formed in her throat, Meera trotted the black filly into the village and toward the weirwood. The roots of the tree were large, and would make a fine hiding and sleeping place during the day. But when the sun set and the Others roamed the night, the roots would not provide a sufficient hiding place from them. And without the protection of the magic within the Wall, as they had at Castle Black, the Night King’s mark would lead them straight to Bran.

With her friend’s whispered command, the horse lowered itself to the ground and allowed Meera to dismount. Bran then undid the straps around his thighs and chest, and she helped him slide off the saddle. Once they both were in the snow, the horse stood back up and whinnied, bobbing her head. Meera then led her behind the one-room house closest to the weirwood, hiding her from view of the clearing, and tied the reins around one of the roots before removing the oversized saddle.

The two companions crawled between the tree roots until the only thing they could see was white wood and black soil, until they were sure they would be hidden from view of any passersby. His hands finding purchase, Bran then closed his eyes and slipped free of his skin. _Into the roots,_ he thought. _Into the weirwood. Become the tree._ For a moment all he could see was the dirt and the wood, and he could hear the winter wind outside.

Then instantly he was back at home again. He was in the Winterfell godswood.

Sitting upon a large rock beside the deep black pool, covered by a thin layer of ice, the white roots of the weirwood twisting around him like gnarled arms, was Jon Snow. He was no longer the lad of fourteen years when he’d last seen him from the heart tree. A large Valyrian steel sword lay across Jon Snow’s lap, a wolf’s head made of pale stone at the end of the hilt, and he was cleaning the blade with an oilcloth. Sansa sat beside him, in a blue fur-lined cloak, her red hair bound in a long braid. She too was older.

“Jon,” Bran whispered, almost in frustration. This was not where he’d intended to go. In his heart, this was where he yearned to be. He wanted to go home. He wanted to speak to Jon. So the tree took him. But this would not help them now.

The man he’d once thought was his brother looked up. “Who’s there?” he asked, turning to face the tree. Sansa started to turn as well…

…and Bran, startled, pulled away. Jon Snow and his sister and the black pool and the Winterfell godswood all faded. He was back under the great Whitetree weirwood, lying in the black soil among the pale thick roots. His throat had gone very dry. He swallowed. “Jon heard me. He heard me this time.”

“What?” replied Meera, staring at him. “Are you going to go back?”

“If I go back to Winterfell, we die,” he said sadly. “Speaking to Jon will do nothing for us now. I could be gone hours, and they they’d come. There’s no one and nothing to protect us. Not yet. But this is the right place. This is the right tree. It’s powerful enough. I just have to concentrate.”

 _“A man must know how to look before he can hope to see,”_ the three-eyed raven had told him. _“Time is different for a tree than for a man. The lives of trees are different. They root and grow and die in one place, and the river of time does not move them. And the weirwood… a weirwood will live forever if left undisturbed. A thousand human years are a moment to a weirwood, and through such gates you and I may gaze into the past.”_

Gripping the pale roots firmly and closing his eyes, Bran slipped his skin and went into the great weirwood. This was the tree he needed, not the one in Winterfell’s godswood. This was the tree that would take him far into the past, wherever he wished to go. This was the tree that would protect them.

*****

Tyrion stood there shaking his head as cavalrymen belonging to the river lords and the Westerlands began riding north, leaving the Twins behind. Varys closed his eyes, sighing. A red priestess rode by on a black horse, and she glanced at them, briefly stopping. “The real battle will soon begin,” she told them. “The sand moves quickly through the glass, and man’s time on earth is almost finished. We must act boldly, or all hope is lost. The Seven Kingdoms must unite under the one true king, the prince that was promised, Prince of Dragonstone and chosen by R’hllor. He is the one who must stand against the Other. If he fails, then the world will fail with him.”

“In Essos, the red priests and priestesses of your god rant for all to hear about bleeding stars and a sword of fire that will cleanse the world, and that the world will surely die if these prophecies aren’t fulfilled in the silver queen,” Tyrion replied to her. “It seems as though your Lord of Light can’t decide who he wants to support, and is just as fickle as men. Prophecies are like half-trained mules. They look as though they could be useful, but the moment you trust in them, they kick you in the head.”

The red woman eyed him thoughtfully. “Your silver dragon queen may yet have a role to play in the war for the dawn. But if any believe that she is the Lord’s chosen, the warrior of fire, then they are wrong.” She then gripped the reins of her black mare, and rode north, following the other riders to the kingsroad.

A loud screeching was heard in the air. Tyrion and Varys looked to the far east to see the dark outline of three dragons in the sky flying toward the Twins. “Returned from hunting,” said the eunuch. “I suppose Daenerys will be sending them somewhere. Either south to the sellswords, or to Dragonstone to destroy Cersei’s ships. They’re the only ones left who will fight for her. Other than the Unsullied and what remains of the Dothraki, I suppose.”

“Oh, gods be damned!” Tyrion shouted in frustration as more troops flying banners from the Westerlands rode by them, heading north. The tents belonging to the camp of House Arryn were suddenly coming down. No doubt those damn Knights of the Vale would go riding north with Littlefinger to claim Sansa Stark as his prize. But on second thought, he hadn’t seen the Lady of Winterfell with Jon Snow and the other northmen as they rode away. Littlefinger probably had Sansa squirreled away somewhere, like a nut he was hoarding for winter.

He sighed, pressing his hands over his eyes. He'd wanted to avoid war. While the throne had been won through steel, fire, and bloodshed in the past, he had thought Daenerys had a real chance at winning the throne through diplomacy. He hadn’t minded if Cersei’s blood spilled, but as for the people of Westeros… Not that sellswords from Braavos would necessarily be considered _their people_.

He suddenly turned and started walking back to the east castle, Varys moving quickly to walk beside him. They made their way over the crossing bridge and through the west castle gate. “Where would Cersei get the gold for ten thousand Braavosi sellswords?” asked Tyrion as they came to the stone steps of the tower where his chambers were located. “The Lannister funds are depleted. The Crown is millions of gold pieces in debt. No one is funding Cersei to rule over them, to be sure. You were once on the council. The Mad King left behind a treasury flowing with gold.”

“Littlefinger was master of coin, my Lord Tyrion. I had little to do with money matters. He always said that his job was to simply find the money while the king and the Hand spent it, so he claimed to have no idea what they were spending it on. He simply spread open his palm and handed over the treasury’s gold, no questions asked, if you believe that. I certainly don’t.”

“Littlefinger’s gold was made of thin air, appearing at the snap of his fingers while he indebted the realm to my father, Mace Tyrell, and the Iron Bank of Braavos. How could Robert Baratheon have become so indebted in so short a time? I can’t imagine hunting and whoring to have cost millions. And I can’t imagine the honorable Jon Arryn allowing him to impoverish the realm.”

Varys stopped on the landing, throwing a glance at the five Unsullied guards standing outside the door to the Hand of the Queen’s chambers. “The question then remains. Who murdered Jon Arryn?”

Tyrion sighed. “I was told he was asking too many questions. And that he’d learned the truth about Cersei’s children. Catelyn Stark certainly believed my family to be responsible.”

“Yes…” the eunuch replied in his cloying tone. “But what if one of those questions was _where has all the gold gone?”_

“Are you saying that Littlefinger bent the realm over and fucked it up the arse? And killed Jon Arryn for finding out? Then I don’t doubt it, that fucking snake.”

Nodding, Varys hummed. “But what has he done with it? The mountain of gold belonging to Aerys Targaryen? Hidden it away in the Vale? An underground lair in King’s Landing?”

He shook his head. “He’s obviously funding the Iron Throne with it, regardless. Of course he’d play both sides and then throw Cersei into the pot like the last ingredient in a stew of madness.”

 _“Chaos is a ladder,”_ the eunuch dully quoted, rolling his eyes.

Tyrion stared at the door. Four guards in addition to the sole Unsullied who stood outside his chambers only meant one thing – Daenerys was still within. “Send a message down to the Ironborn. They are to man their ships, which shouldn’t take long seeing as how they were already preparing for a raid.” He frowned. “They are to sail south along the Green Fork to meet the sellswords. Find Grey Worm and have the Unsullied make ready to march south. The Dothraki horde as well. And tell Lord Robin Arryn and the Knights of the Vale that Queen Daenerys has commanded them south to fight Cersei's sellswords on her behalf.”

Varys smirked. “Oh, Littlefinger will not like that. I'll send him the message at once.” He bowed and turned back to descend the spiraling stone steps.

He didn’t have time to think about what to do with Littlefinger at the moment. If he dared enter the west castle to protest the Vale being sent to fight Cersei, he’d be easily apprehended. But something told him that he shouldn’t expect that. Fighting Baelish would require subtlety. Taking a deep breath, the Hand of the Queen grasped hold of the latch and opened the door. Tyrion found her inside, as expected, standing in front of the shuttered window in his bedchamber looking out at the west bank of the river. Many Ironborn stood on the bank near their anchored ships, and she thought they seemed to be having a heated discussion. Some were shouting while others angrily pointed their fingers. She wondered what had upset them.

Dany turned to face him. “I need to speak to Yara Greyjoy. She’s going to…” The queen played with her fingers anxiously. “But she can’t. I need to tell her…”

“Does this have anything to do with the camps across the river, Your Grace?” he asked, fixing a pointed gaze on her. “With Jon Snow and his sisters?”

She fell silent, and lowered herself into the wooden chair by the wall. She swallowed against the lump forming in her throat and stared down at her lap, unable to meet his penetrating gaze.

Tyrion quietly moved into the bedchamber, stepping closer to her. “So you planned an attack with the Ironborn.” He kept walking until he stood in front of her. “After forming marriage alliances with the North and with the Westerlands, you decided to slaughter them in their beds as they slept.”

She looked up at him. Even though his voice was calm, his eyes were angry, disappointed, and condemning. Her own eyes began to prick with hot tears. “They were going to take the throne from me,” she whispered, her throat tightening. “They were going to take my dragons.”

He shook his head, sighing. “You are just as senselessly suspicious as your father. I lived under the harsh rule of _my_ father for most of my life. I served that monster, Joffrey, and endured the cruel hatefulness of my sister. I am _done_ with tyrants. I wanted to serve someone good, to use my talents to help someone worthy. I believed in you. But it seems I was mistaken.”

Tyrion pulled the heavy pin from the threads of his tunic, the ornate silver hand that was his badge of office. He laid it gently in her hands, saddened by the memory of the young woman who had pinned it on him in Meereen, the friend he had grown to love. “I thought you were better than this, Daenerys. I thought we were making a nobler queen.”

Dany sat there, stunned into silence, tears welling up in her eyes. She wished he would get angry and shout, scream at her, even strike her. But his cold disappointment she could not bear. Her guts twisted into knots, and something deep inside her chest clutched at her and ached.

“I can’t help you if you refuse to listen to me. If you want to keep your own counsel, then you don’t want or need a Hand.”

Tears fell from her eyes, rolling down her cheeks, flushed red with emotion. “Don’t leave me,” she pleaded. “Everyone I have ever loved has left me. I _do_ need you.” She swallowed. A nervous fluttering filled her stomach, and her mind was a flurry of confusion. “I do… I do want you.” Her eyes grew darker as a flush crept up her neck, and her hands trembled as she once again pinned the silver hand to his chest.

He found himself wanting to believe her, even though memories of Shae suddenly came back to him like a vengeance, as though the stabs of a sword. A whore couldn’t even love him. Why would a queen?

“This plot you schemed with the Ironborn could have been disastrous,” he said quietly. “You’re fortunate it was discovered and you were saved from calamity. I need to know that you will do nothing so foolish ever again. I need to know that you trust me to give you good advice, and I need to know that I can trust you to heed my counsel. Otherwise, what good am I? Cersei has just stupidly offered up the throne on a platter, and now the time has come for you to rule. I _need_ to know that I am on the right side. Without that, I have nothing. I no longer have the power of House Lannister, which has shamed and bankrupted itself into the dirt. I have nothing more than a scarred face and a pair of shunted legs.”

“You have me.” Dany took his hand in hers and gently pulled him to stand closer. As he looked at her, his face softened, and she thought she saw love and affection in his gaze. Without thinking, she leaned forward and kissed him, her hands sliding around his shoulders as she pressed herself against him.

Her mouth tasted of honey and cloves and red wine, and the kiss started to arouse him. Tyrion gently disentangled himself from her embrace. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but not now.”

She smiled shyly, fighting a grin. “I guess this will complicate my marriage to Jon Snow. If he’d even still agree to one.”

“Uh, about that…”

“Lord Varys and Lady Tyrell have asked me several times when the date will be, as I was in such a hurry to marry off Sansa Stark to your brother.” She sighed. “When I think of marriage, things like duty and politics and diplomacy taste of bitterness. A marriage without love doesn’t appeal me. I’d honestly rather not marry at all. I only agreed to it because you said it was necessary.” She played with her fingers nervously. “I suppose if he finds out about the scheme with the Ironborn, then I’ve ruined any chances of gaining Jon Snow’s support.”

Tyrion pursed his lips. “Yes. The threat of murder kind of takes the joy out of wedding plans. I spoke to him and your contract is now invalid. He’s left the Twins and rides north.” He fixed her with a steady gaze. “But you will _still_ help him. You will treat the North justly as you will the other kingdoms. He talks of ice and storms and an invasion of creatures from children’s tales. But he might not be wrong. If that’s the case, then he will need your help. You can still be the queen I believe you can be.”

She frowned, the guilt churning in her stomach. “He told me who Jon Snow _really_ is. He told me that the lords of the North were going to seize me and make Jon Snow the king of the realm. That he was going to take my dragons from me.”

“ _He?_ Who told you this?”

“Lord Baelish. He wanted to warn me, to tell me the truth about Jon Snow.”

He shook his head. “Littlefinger has never loved anyone but Littlefinger. He’s never been devoted to anyone but himself. He’s never sworn fealty to anyone but himself. Everything he says and does is for the sake of his own advancement, his own acquisition of wealth and power. Jon Snow may not actively help you after what you’ve done, the lords of the Riverlands and Westerlands included, but he does not _want_ the Iron Throne. He doesn’t want your dragons. He’s left and gone north, and the lords bannermen with him. And that is the truth. If you were to rule, he would not defy you, he would not seek to dethrone you. He just wants to stay at home in his precious Winterfell and make love to Sansa Stark.”

His face hardened. _“But Littlefinger does want the Iron Throne_ , he _will_ defy you, and he will _seek_ to dethrone you and seat _himself_ in your place. He’s been doing just that all along. With his aid, Cersei has sent ships with casks of wildfire sailing for Dragonstone and she marches north to the Riverlands with ten thousand sellswords.”  

She stared at him, her eyes widening. Dany stood up from the chair, her breathing quickening. Anxiety melted from her expression, and replaced with confident determination. “The time has come for me to win my throne. To take back what’s mine, with fire and blood. I don't need Jon Snow's help, nor help from any other noble lords. I’ll have my vengeance, and justice for all that was taken from me.”

With a worrying expression on his face, Tyrion followed his queen as she made for the door. A loud screeching sound was heard in the sky, and they turned to look at the shuttered window. She hurried back until she was gazing out into the night, the full moon illuminating the west bank in dim white. Rhaegal was flying alone towards the castle from the forest, large green wings stirring the cool night air. Drogon and Viserion were not with him. He was moving fast and was going to fly right over the castle toward the east bank. 

Dany’s eyes widened. “No,” she shouted out the window, before rushing into the adjoining solar and looking out the tall window that faced the east bank of the Green Fork. The green dragon continued flying away from the castles, flying north, and in her heart something told her that he was following Jon Snow. “No,” she screamed. “NO!” His answering roar was full of fury, full of pain, full of hate.

“ _I_ am the blood of the dragon!” she shouted into the night. “I am the _last_ dragon!”

 _Once,_ the night air whispered back, _until you chained your dragons in the dark._

She shook her head. “But I am the Mother of Dragons,” she whispered.

 _Yes,_ the night said, _but then you turned against your children and locked them away in a pit of darkness. Now your child has chosen another._

The dragon roared his goodbyes until she could no longer see or hear him. Her heart broke at the sound, and she knew that Rhaegal would never come back to her of his own volition. 

Tyrion stared at her in confusion, quickly moving between her and the night sky. Why would the green dragon be going north? Why was the queen so anguished about it? Her dragons flew all over, but mostly keeping to the east, always drawn to Dragonstone, she had said. He then thought back to the things she’d said to him tonight. To what the red priestess had said to him earlier _._ “Is there something about Jon Snow you haven’t told me?”

*****

Behind Lord Robett Glover’s screen of scouts, Jon Snow’s line of march stretched for several miles as they made their way toward the kingsroad. With the full moon shining large and bright above them, he led the van of one hundred northmen at the front. He was seated on his grey stallion beside Ser Davos and Lord Wyman Manderly, under the watchful eye of the lord’s White Harbor knights at their rear. More plodding warhorses with men armored in mail and leather on their backs rode behind them, led by their lords bannermen, the sigils of Houses Mormont, Karstark, Ryswell, Cerwyn, and Tallhart sewn into their cloaks. Even farther back were Bill Liddle, Luke Norrey, Owen Wull, and Errold Flint leading the rearguard made up entirely of young, hardy men from their mountain clans.

Four thousand men were departing the Twins further behind them, southron troops following them north towards the Neck, along with a baggage train of wagons laden with food and camp supplies. The lords of the Trident and the gold-rich hills of the Lannister west were remaining behind to maintain their hold on the Riverlands and Westerlands from their own castles. But as promised, the garrisons from their armies that had once camped around the Green Fork now began marching to the North to aid Jon Snow. The thought of riding into the swampy black bog of the Neck left them all feeling uneasy, but the southron soldiers felt confident that the Ironborn had the sense not to come after them, their strength on land not nearly as fierce as the sea.

“We are stronger than we seem, Your Grace,” said Lord Wyman Manderly as they rode. Jon had grown fond of the lord from White Harbor, and he gave him a small smile. “Many more from the realm will come to fight beside the White Wolf in the battles ahead. You haven’t lost one yet.”

 _Yes, I have. At Hardhome._ Memories from that grim, grey day rushed forward in his mind, but they were truthfully never far from his thoughts. The army of the dead. Defeating a White Walker with Longclaw. The Night King’s penetrating gaze, fixed upon him with keen interest, and then raising the fallen free folk to join his wights with just the slightest movement of his hands.

Jon had never felt such despair, such absolute hopelessness as he had on that day. He never wanted to experience the likes of such tragedy again, but when he thought of the future, he hadn’t much hope. He’d won some battles, saved some lives, reclaimed Winterfell, and yet he felt like he had lost. What of Sansa and Arya? Would they be found alive and well? Would they reach the safety of Winterfell? Would Bran ever find his way back, if he was even alive? What if he never saw them again? When he returned home, all that would be left to him was the cheerless prospect of dead brothers and sisters, an empty bed, and a castle full of ghosts.

A castle full of ghosts and memories steeped in lies. Instead of the bastard son of the honorable Eddard Stark, he was the bastard son of the man who kidnapped and raped his mother, a mother who had no doubt wished her child dead. But she had died instead. He had no real mother. He had no brothers. He had no sisters. Ned Stark was not his father. Not in the eyes of men or the gods. In a matter of moments, his family had been taken away from him, a family that had never truly belonged to him. And soon the Night King would arrive with the storm and his army of the dead, consuming all life and sending the world into darkness. What hope had he of stopping such power? There wasn’t enough Valyrian steel in Westeros to stop them. And when the time came to fight, their own fallen dead would simply join the ranks of the Others’ wights. Who could stop it?

But it would not do for him to speak of such things. The northmen never lacked for courage, but right now they were far from the security of home with little to sustain them but their faith and trust in their king. That faith and trust must be protected, no matter the cost. _I must be stronger,_ Jon told himself. _I must be stronger for my men. If I despair, grief will overtake me and then they will lose all hope. Sansa, where are you? Come back to me. Come back home safe._

Davos gripped the reins of his chestnut gelding, frowning. “The wars to come will be your biggest challenge yet, Your Grace. But at least we can be assured that no enemy would be foolish enough to follow us from behind into the lands of the crannogmen and their poisoned arrows.”

Before Jon could reply, a roaring was heard in the distance. He glanced behind his shoulder as the riders around him came to a halt. The horses became restless. _No,_ he thought. _No, please no._ The roaring grew louder even though nothing could yet be seen in the sky, but there was no mistaking the source of the terrible sound. His heart sank into his stomach like a stone weight, knowing there was nothing they could do to defend themselves, knowing that he’d led his men away from Daenerys and the Ironborn, but had led them to their deaths anyway. He’d won, and now he was about to lose.

Maddened by the smell of dragon, the horses reared in terror, lashing out. The men struggled to maintain their grip on the reins and control of their steeds. Then by the light of the full moon, jade-green wings appeared in the sky and a long tail lashed like an enormous whip. When the dragon roared, a burst of yellow flame turned darkness into day for half a moment, and Jon filled with frozen dread, wondering if that was going to be the last thing he would see before he died. As the green dragon came closer, looming like a massive beast in the night sky, he closed his eyes and dreamed of Sansa’s face.

*****

Bran looked out from the eyes of the great weirwood. The stone houses were gone as well as the fences of the sheepfold and the well. The village was not there nor was any sign that anything remotely resembling a man-made dwelling had ever been there. He looked at the edge of the clearing, gazing at the tree line. He knew that the haunted forest north of the Wall had many weirwood trees. And he knew who would tend to them.

It was only a matter of minutes before he saw movement in the forest, small figures running through the trees. Their skin was dappled like a doe’s with pale spots, and they wore cloaks made of woven leaves and their legs were bound with tree bark. Their eyes were strange – large and liquid, like golden cat’s eyes. Vines and twigs and withered flowers were woven into the tangle of their hair, brown and green and gold. They were singing in a language he didn’t understand, but he’d heard it before.

He called out to them. “Children! Those who sing the song of earth!”

The figures froze, and for a moment the cluster of Sentinel evergreens hid them from sight. But then slowly five of them emerged from the tree line, stepping into the clearing, gazing intently up at the massive weirwood of Whitetree. While three of them had eyes as golden as the sun, one child had eyes as green as the moss on a tree in the heart of a forest and the other had eyes as red as blood. Greenseers. They were who he was looking for, and the weirwood had taken him to this exact moment in time, knowing what he’d needed.

“Children? It is men who are the children,” said one of them with golden eyes, smiling at the others.

“I am Bran the Last Greenseer,” he called to them from the heart tree.

They stared up at the weirwood. The two chosen ones among them stepped forward, coming closer and looking up at the tree appraisingly. “Where do you come from?” the one with red eyes asked.

He thought carefully of his response and then spoke. “The same place as this, the very same weirwood, but a time far into the future. The world is yet again on the brink of peril. The ancient enemy has risen once more.”

The faces of the children-who-were-not-children became grim, their eyes lowering from the face of the tree.

“I know where the Others came from,” Bran said. “I know you were at war with the First Men and that you were driven to a desperate act to save your lands.”

They looked up at the tree in shock, their large eyes widening and their lips parting.

He looked upon them, and could feel their sorrow. “I know how deeply you feel regret over this and how during the Long Night you aided the last hero in the Battle for the Dawn, and drove what was left of the Others far north from the realms of men. They have now risen up again, moving farther and farther south of the Land of Always Winter. They’ve made themselves a king, the Great Other, and he claims those who have died for his own, increasing the numbers of their armies of wights. If the Night King ever brings the Wall down, night will fall as well, and I fear it will be the long night that never ends. Can you stop them?”

“They developed a power far beyond our own,” said the child with the moss green eyes, gazing up at the carved face of the weirwood.

“But someone has to,” he replied. “Can you help me?”

The two Greenseers among the children looked up at the weirwood uneasily.

He could see the apprehension in their eyes. “When the sun sets here, in the place where I am from, then I will die. The Night King knows how to find me. There’s more for me to do. He must be defeated.”

“Come out of the tree,” the child with red eyes told him.

He wondered if it was a simple request, so that they could better help him, or a command to test his power of greensight. _“The children carved eyes into their heart trees to awaken them, and those are the first eyes a new greenseer learns to use,”_ the three-eyed raven had told him. _“But in time you will see well beyond the trees themselves.”_ And his teacher had been right. In time, the raven had taught him to move beyond the trees, to walk among the memories of the past. Bran closed his eyes.

When his eyes opened a moment later, he was standing in the clearing looking down upon the wide-eyed faces of the two children of the forest. The three with golden eyes merely looked about, unable to see him. He turned back and gazed up at the large face of the heart tree. The two stepped closer to him. “What are your names?” he asked them.

“We only use them when we need them,” answered the green-eyed child, the voice high and sweet and musical. “Are you truly the last greenseer? For there are still some numbers on the earth, both of men and among our kind.”

“But my time is hundreds of years beyond this one,” Bran replied. “Maybe even a thousand. And yes, I am the last. There was one before me, who was once a lord of men called Brynden Rivers. For many years he was the Last Greenseer. But in the twilight of his time on earth, he called to me in my dreams using a three-eyed crow. I went out with some companions to search north of the Wall. Eventually we found his cave, formed in the ground beneath a great weirwood. The children of the forest were with him and they called him the Last Greenseer. But he has gone, and now only I remain.”

The two children stepped even closer. The one with bright green eyes reached forward and grasped his hand. Startled, Bran pulled back. “How were you able to touch me?”

“We are greenseers as well,” spoke the red-eyed child. “And strong with the greensight. We are one with the trees and have been so for a thousand thousands of your man-years. We are the ones who carved their faces and woke them up.”

“The Night King touched me. As you just did.” He lifted the sleeve of his tunic, revealing the pale blue hand-print. The children stared at it. “How? Was he once a greenseer?”

The children bowed their heads slightly, averting their eyes. “The man who called himself the Night’s King, who ruled the Night’s Watch… he was a greenseer _and_ a skinchanger. One skinchanger in a thousand could also be a greenseer. And _he_ was. But he used the power of greensight for ill, and chased the woman with ice cold skin as white as the moon. It was an unnatural, unholy union, cursed by the gods. When the armies of men came together to fight them at the Wall, he fled north after she was struck down with an obsidian blade. We caught him here in the haunted forest.”

He remembered when the three-eyed raven took him to the forest, to the weirwood grove, where the children had tied a man to a tree and shoved an obsidian blade into his chest. Bran became angry. “You turned the Night’s King into a White Walker. He became one of them!”

“We punished him,” the green-eyed child insisted. “And forced him north, to the Land of Always Winter, where he would spend the rest of his days in that icy prison, barred forever from the warmth of life, barred forever from the weirwood trees. He would never again look through their eyes. He would never again return south of the Wall to his original home.”

“The Wall was built for a reason,” he said, his voice full of frustration. “The Others almost wiped out all life once before, in the Long Night that lasted a generation until the last hero sought your help. Why increase their depleted numbers? And you only added to his powers!” He then fixed his gaze upon the two children, and eyed them thoughtfully. “Did you do that on purpose? In case the treaty with men didn’t last? In case you needed to make use of your weapon again? But this time you created one too powerful, one you would never be able to control.”

They didn’t reply, nor did they meet his gaze. Yet there was something like pride in their demeanor. No doubt they believed they had done the right thing at the time. Then the child with the blood-red eyes looked up. “We will do whatever we can to help you. We cannot change the past. But the future has yet to be written.”

“I need a cave to be built within this weirwood and it needs to be warded, a protection placed to keep the dead men out,” Bran told them.

“This we can do,” replied the green-eyed child-who-was-not-a-child.

He looked down at his arm. “And I need this mark removed.”

They stepped forward and took his forearm, holding it in their palms. “I don’t know if this will work, but it might.”

While one pulled a stone implement from inside its woven cloak of green and gold leaves, the other presented an obsidian blade. Using the implement, a splinter of dragonglass was removed from the blade, about two inches long. Bracing himself as they grasped hold of his arm, the splinter was thrust under his skin, beneath the imprint of the blue hand-mark. In a matter of moments, the mark grew fainter and fainter, until it faded to nothing and only his fair skin remained. Relief flooded through him deeper and faster than the rushing blue-green waters of the Trident.

Bran opened his eyes. He was sitting upright, his legs spread out in front of him. The thick white roots of the great weirwood were all around him, cradling his arms like a mother would a child. He glanced down at the ground of hard-packed soil. A torch flared up in front of him, and there stood Meera, holding a knife and flint in her other hand. She went around lighting other torches along the walls. They were inside a cavern, within the Whitetree weirwood.

“It worked,” he said. “They did it.”

“Did what?” she asked.

He gazed at her with creasing brows. “The children made the cave after I asked them to.”

She looked back at him, her expression one of confusion. “But this cave has been here the whole time… Oh. It wasn’t? You can really change the past when you slip your skin? That seems dangerous. The three-eyed raven said the past should not be meddled with.”

Ignoring her warning, he hurriedly lifted the sleeve of his tunic. The blue hand-print was gone, but he could feel the obsidian splinter under his skin. Filled with tremendous relief, he also guessed that the magical ward the children had placed around the tree would work as well. He hoped they had placed it around the whole clearing, allowing them a clear way to escape if necessary.

“I need to find a way to stop the Night King,” he said, heaving a sigh. “But I have no real power.”

“You can learn things that no one else could ever hope to know,” Meera said. “Knowledge is your power, Bran.”

He was no longer Bran the Broken. Brandon Stark the cripple boy. “The Prince of Winterfell.” Of Winterfell burned and broken, its people scattered and slain. He was Bran the Last Greenseer. So long as there was magic, anything could happen. Ghosts could walk, trees could talk, and broken boys could grow up to be more powerful than knights.


	26. The Hour Of The Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'Cersei.' He spoke slowly, like a man waking from a dream, still wondering where he was. 'What hour is it?'
> 
> 'The hour of the wolf.' His sister lowered her hood, and made a face. 'The drowned wolf, perhaps.' She smiled for him, so sweetly. 'Do you remember the first time I came to you like this? It was some dismal inn off Weasel Alley, and I put on servant's garb to get past Father's guards.'
> 
> 'I remember. It was Eel Alley.' _She wants something of me._ 'Why are you here, at this hour? What would you have of me?' His last word echoed up and down the sept, mememememememememememe, fading to a whisper. For a moment he dared to hope that all she wanted was the comfort of his arms." ~ A Feast for Crows, Jaime I

They stood on the stone landing, overlooking the rowboat in the murky green waters that surrounded Greywater Watch. The morning was grey and damp, and a drizzle had begun to fall. Gendry and Theon were getting down into the boat, and some crannogmen had also gotten into a small skiff further up the landing. They turned to see Howland Reed and his wife Jyana step through the open gate at the far end of the landing. Sansa turned to face Arya, who also turned and met her gaze.

“Remember, we cannot tell a soul about these,” she whispered, pressing her right hand over her clean grey-green hooded cloak, at the spot just over her heart where she’d placed the two wills. They lay hidden behind a panel of matching wool she had sewn inside the cloak. “We cannot speak of them nor anything Lord Reed told us until we speak to Jon first.”

“I won’t,” said Arya earnestly, shaking her head.

Her sister looked down at her, and spoke firmly. “Not even to Gendry. _No one_ can know before Jon knows.”

She gripped Needle’s hilt from where it hung inside its leather scabbard at her hip. “I swear it.”

“Well, my ladies, I’m sad to see you go but glad that we finally got to meet,” spoke Lady Reed. “It had been awful lonely here without our own children, Jojen and Meera.” She paused, her moss green eyes becoming shiny and wet. “If you by chance see them, will you tell them that we miss them very much and hope they can return home soon?”

“We will, my lady,” answered Arya. “And thank you for everything.”

Jyana smiled, leaned over to kiss the youngest Stark girl on the head.

Howland glanced between his wife and Ned’s daughters, smiling. “Do you have all that you need? You didn’t forget anything inside your chambers?”

Arya shook her head. “I have everything.”

Her sister did the same, before running her hand over the knife at her waist, the one she’d taken from the Twins a month ago, and had almost fatally used inside this very castle just over two weeks earlier. One of the Greywater Watch servants had been kind enough to gift her with a small scabbard for the blade. Arya then said her goodbyes and stepped down into the rowboat.

Sansa then looked down at Lord and Lady Reed, who were smiling up at her. Her throat tightened and tears filled her eyes. “Thank you,” was all she was able to whisper.

Howland placed his hands gently over her arms and looked up into her face. “Stay strong, child, and have faith. You have a long journey ahead, and winter is here. But you are a Stark of Winterfell. _The Starks were made for cold,_ your father used to say. You’ve got wolf blood running through your veins. The longest, darkest hour of the night, when the whole world is sleeping, is also called the hour of the wolf. So have no fear, come what may, no matter how dark and bleak the nights ahead become. For _you_ are a wolf. Your father was a good man. The best I ever knew. And everything I know about Jon Snow tells me that he’s just the same. I know he’ll do right by you and your child.” He paused, and lowered his voice. “I received a message this morning that a dragon had followed him to Moat Cailin and continues to follow him north.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh no!” The thought of anything happening to Jon knotted her stomach, fear welling up inside her.

He shook his head. “The dragon has no rider, and is simply… following him. It hasn’t attacked. No one has been harmed.”

“But what does that mean?” she asked. “Why wouldn’t the dragon stay with Daenerys?”

“I just told you that you are wolf-blooded,” Lord Reed replied. “So is Jon Snow. But he is wolf _and_ dragon, ice _and_ fire. He already has that white direwolf. Well… perhaps it’s time he claimed himself a dragon.”

Sansa thought for a moment. “But won’t that anger Daenerys?”

Howland sighed. “Aye, it might.”

“Do you think she knows about…?”

“I couldn’t say,” he replied, shrugging as he dropped his hold on her arms. “I have no idea what she’s been told.”

She nodded. “Thank you again for all that you did for me, Lord and Lady Reed. I’ll never forget it. If you ever have need, send word to Winterfell. House Stark will always keep faith with you, today and all days to come.”

Jyana smiled. “Thank you, my lady.”

Sansa was then helped into the rowboat, Theon grabbing her canvas bag before she stepped inside. She seated herself on the floor of the rowboat, her back against Arya’s seat and her long legs stretched out in front her, sliding under Gendry’s seat in the middle. Theon then handed her the canvas bag with her clothes and she set it on the floor beside her along with a burlap bag filled with food for their travel, and she leaned against them to get comfortable.

“It’ll be a journey of about ten days to Moat Cailin, possibly longer,” Howland said to them. “The heavy rains have flooded the Neck, and the temperature is dropping every day. The king left behind a message when he departed Moat Cailin. A party is to wait for you there and escort you all north to Winterfell.”

“Who’s in the party, m’lord?” asked Gendry.

Lord Reed shook his head. “His Grace didn’t say.”

Gendry and Theon then pushed off from the stone landing along the southern wall of Greywater Watch, the skiff with three crannogmen in front of their own boat doing the same. As they began to row around the castle, making their way to the northern side, the Reeds waved goodbye.

Arya stood up at the front of the rowboat, and called back to them. “If we learn anything of Jojen and Meera, we’ll send word right away!”

Jyana and Howland Reed smiled and waved, the lord placing his strong arm around his lady.

*****

Jaime lifted the entrance flap, gaining admittance to her tented pavilion and escape from the heavy rains. He lifted the hood from his cloak, and it fell back. She stood there in a gown of black leather, the bodice studded with silver. It’s what their father would’ve worn had he been a woman, which he guessed was her intention. When she turned to face him and their eyes met, his heart once again broke into a thousand pieces. Inside him a battle raged, guilt, anger, and love struggling for the dominant emotion. Her gaze was cold and hard as stone. They had ruined each other’s lives and the lives of countless others, only he’d been the only one to realize this painful truth. She remained willfully blind and was still mercilessly proud, unrepentant and unashamed of all they had done. They should pay for their crimes. Lannisters should pay their debts.

“Leave us,” she commanded her guards. She then turned and looked up at the Mountain, looming just behind her, clad in sparkling white armor and a white cloak, holding a white shield. “You as well. Step outside the tent. I need to speak with him alone. I’ll be fine.”

The Mountain grunted and then started walking towards the entrance, passing by the queen’s brother and disappearing outside. The sight of that monster clad in the arraignment of a Kingsguard sickened Jaime’s stomach.

Cersei stepped over to the table in the middle of the pavilion and lifted a glass of wine. “So, I guess I know why you never came back to me. You support the rule of Daenerys Targaryen? I must admit I’m quite shocked, knowing what you did to her father, the Mad King. Are you expecting her to name you Lord Commander of her Queensguard? Or perhaps you want to be her king?”

“I don’t support her,” he answered. “And I’m never going back to King’s Landing.”

“Why not? You’d fit right in. Why wouldn’t she choose a one-handed man to be Lord Commander or even king? She’s chosen that imp for her Hand, foolish girl. Of all the people in the world, she chose Tyrion for Hand of the Queen.”

He sighed. “Tyrion is a brilliant strategist, just like Father. You and Joffrey were lucky the day he arrived in the Red Keep to serve as Hand in Father’s stead. He saved you all from disaster.”

She pursed her lips, her eyes flashing with anger. “He murdered our son. Along with that empty-headed Stark girl.”

Jaime closed his eyes, shaking his head. “They are both innocent of the crime. They had nothing to do with Joffrey’s death, and only served to take the fall for others. Tyrion certainly wouldn’t have done it at a wedding in front of one hundred witnesses. He’s much smarter, and far cleverer than that. Deep down, you know it to be true. Even if you will never admit it.”

“Why are you here?” she asked coldly.

“I’m here to advise you, to help you. Abandon this course. It is folly. The Unsullied march behind me, the Ironborn sail down the Trident, and the dragons could appear any moment. Retreat and surrender the throne. Get yourself on a ship and sail somewhere far – Essos, or the Summer Isles.”

She took a sip from her glass. “Ned Stark once told me the same thing. Thought he was being merciful by giving me and my children the chance to escape King’s Landing before he told Robert the truth about us.”

“He knew Robert would’ve killed you all. I remember when Ned Stark first arrived at the Red Keep, after they’d ridden south from the Trident. I remember the look on his face when he saw what had happened to Elia Martell and Rhaegar’s children. The honorable Lord Stark would never have condoned the death of your children, but Robert would’ve done it all the same. You should have listened to the king’s Hand. Despite our crimes, Ned Stark was giving you the chance to survive. Maybe your children would yet live, and you would not be here, on the brink of perishing from dragonfire. None of this would have ever happened.”

He shook his head. “Why did you do something so foolish as to leave the Red Keep?”

“I didn’t want the people thinking me a coward,” she stated. “I’m doing what Father would’ve done – I’m showing my strength.”

“Father never would’ve told you to march with the army. He would’ve advised you to remain in King’s Landing, maintaining your hold on the throne. All Daenerys has to do is fly her dragons to the capital, and it’s over. You’re finished. But I suspect she’ll send her dragons through the Riverlands to light your sellswords ablaze on her way south, just to make it official. I’m willing to bet that your ships sailing for Dragonstone are burning as we speak.”

Cersei glared at him. “If Daenerys arrives in King’s Landing while I am still on the march with my army, Qyburn is going to light the city with wildfire. She’ll be a queen of charred bones and burnt flesh. She’ll be a queen of corpses.”

The _real_ reason she had left the capital. Shocked, he could only stare. And then anger flooded Jaime’s gut like molten gold. “And I will be north, husband to Sansa Stark, and Lord of Winterfell,” he said, his voice as hard as steel. “We _are_ betrothed, if you hadn’t yet heard. Sansa Stark is my last chance to gain some honor before I die, and I’m going to take it. The Lannister name is on its way out. I’ll be taking hers and I’ll give her as many Stark children as she wants. I’ll be a good father to them and a good husband to her. I’ll live out the rest of my days surrounded by my beautiful redheaded children, and the rest of my nights making love to my beautiful lady wife. I’ve yet to sample, but I’m sure she tastes of youth, sweet and fresh and innocent. I’ve no doubt that the heat between her legs would regenerate me with a vengeance. And I’ll forget you ever existed. I’ll forget that I ever loved a hateful woman.”

 _No, not that devious little she-wolf._ Hot tears stung Cersei’s eyes, and her stomach tied into knots so tight she thought she might be sick. “You were never _worthy_ of the Lannister name! You’ve run from every chance you ever had to gain power, every chance you had to rule! Father kept placing all his hopes for the future on _you_ while he ignored the fact that _I_ was the better, just because I was a woman! If only _I_ had been _you!_ All I’ve ever wanted was to be _you!_ And as Father’s firstborn son, I would’ve made him proud where you were only ever a disappointment!”

Before he could say anything, an ominous screeching was heard in the distance. Dragons. Jaime and Cersei locked eyes, and the old woman’s voice came back to her. “ _Queen you shall be… until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear.”_

“I hate you,” she said in her rage and despair. “I was meant to wed Rhaegar Targaryen! Father promised me that that I would marry Rhaegar! I was meant to be his queen! I _never_ forgave Robert for killing him! The wrong man came back from the Trident! Whenever Robert mounted me like the animal he was, I always pretended it was Rhaegar!”

Tears were now streaming down her face, and her voice sounded wild, the words pouring out in a rush. “I kept hoping and praying that Rhaegar would be mine! Even _after_ I came to you that first night and seduced you just so that you’d join the Kingsguard and never leave the capital! All so you’d be close to the king and the prince, and would learn all their secrets! So that _I_ would know their secrets! Next to beautiful Prince Rhaegar, you were nothing more than a callow boy! I kept hoping that stupid Dornish whore would die in childbirth and then I would be his wife! If only I had married Rhaegar as the gods intended! Rhaegar would be our king today and I would be his queen, the mother of _his_ sons! Not the mother of dead children that came from your poisonous loins!”

His eyes wide and crazed, Jaime rushed forward. But just as he was bearing down on her, Cersei’s hand rose overhead and then came swooping down against the side of his face. Glass shattered. The jagged remains of the wine glass fell to the ground. There was blood on her hands, blood flowing from the open gash in his cheek, blood dripping down his neck, staining the collar of his linen tunic.

They crashed to the ground, Jaime and Cersei, thrashing about. He ended up on top, his hand wrapping around her neck as his body pinned her beneath him. She clawed at him and beat his chest. She struggled to uncurl his fingers from around her neck, and realized that he meant to follow through. He was going to suffocate her, and there was nothing she could do about it.

“Rhaegar?” he cried, choking on his tears. “He never looked twice at you! He was in love with Lyanna Stark, you foolish, stupid woman. You were _never_ going to be his queen. If Rhaegar had come back from the Trident, he would’ve placed a crown upon _her_ head! I… I am the one who loved you! Who wanted you! We were more than brother and sister! We were one person, one soul inside two bodies! We shared a womb together! I followed you into the world, holding onto your foot, but I refuse to follow you any longer!”

Jaime raised his golden hand, pressing it hard against her windpipe, as the sound of roaring dragons grew louder in the night sky outside the tent.

 _“And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you,”_ Cersei heard, but the voice did not belong to the old woman. It was the voice of Sansa Stark. “No,” she tried to cry out, but Jaime’s hands dug deep into her neck, choking off her protests. She fought and kicked to no avail. Before long she was making the same sound her eldest son had made, the terrible thin gasping sound that was Joffrey's last breath on earth.

Falling to the ground beside her, his face still bleeding, Jaime wailed in despair and heartbreak, crying out in misery. The dragons roared overhead and the air turned hot. He heard the frantic screams of men, the sellswords running from the flames. He wanted to die, to be swallowed up in dragonfire as he lay next to his dead sister. But that was not to be his fate. It was the hour of the wolf when he’d first entered Cersei’s tent, and the hour of the wolf when he’d emerged.

Rushing into the tent, Brienne, Podrick, and Bronn grabbed hold of him and dragged him outside. He'd fought them and begged to die beside Cersei, but they ignored his protests and his choking sobs. After managing to get him on the back of his horse, Brienne gripped his reins in her left hand and led them north, away from the roaring dragons and screaming sellswords. Later on, Jaime would not remember what happened following Cersei’s death. He would not remember being taken from the tent, being placed on the horse, riding away to the sounds of roars and screams, to the smells of fire and burning flesh. He would remember none of it.

*****

Dany would often dream that she was Rhaegar, flying over the Trident atop a dragon melting the ice-armored armies of the Usurper with dragonfire. And at the crossing of the ruby ford, where Rhaegar had fallen after the Usurper’s fatal hammer blow to his chest, whispering the name _Lyanna_ on his dying lips as the scattered rubies from his armor sank into the shallow waters, a third of the ten thousand Braavosi sellswords perished before the rest fell to their knees and pleaded for their lives. They tossed aside their weapons and swore fealty to the dragon queen. She gladly accepted their surrender. The ten ships from the royal fleet, carrying casks of wildfire that had departed King’s Landing for the volcanic island of Dragonstone at the mouth of Blackwater Bay, were burned and broken wreckage. It was now time to leave the eastern Riverlands and head south to the Crownlands to reclaim her throne.

Dany and her host of Unsullied, Dothraki, and Braavosi soldiers marched south as the Ironborn ships sailed from the Trident and into the Bay of Crabs, heading for the Narrow Sea. Yara Greyjoy had been commanded to send her fleet back to the Iron Islands. She was enraged over her brother’s betrayal and requested permission to seek vengeance against him as well as the Starks, but this had been denied. Yara Greyjoy requested permission to accompany the new Queen of the Seven Kingdoms to the capital, to partake in the celebrations, to be present at the upcoming coronation. This too had been denied. Instead, Daenerys kept her promise to grant the Iron Islands’ independence, and ordered the Queen of Salt and Rock to return home. As the Ironborn ships sailed away toward the mouth of the Trident, she wondered just how troublesome the Iron Islands were going to be. But it didn’t truly matter, for she had dragons. When had salt or rock ever withstood dragonfire?

“King’s Landing is preparing for your arrival, Your Grace.” Tyrion sat down at the table in the middle of her tent while they made camp near the Ivy Inn along the kingsroad, having recently passed the Gods Eye, the largest lake in the Seven Kingdoms.

“Yes, I dispatched some ravens before we departed the Twins,” said Varys. “I expect Qyburn has already been dealt with. I’ve also sent word among my little birds to investigate the storage of wildfire remaining beneath the city. We don’t want another Sept of Baelor incident. Our men within the city have been instructed to fill carts with sand, remove any jars they find, and transport them back to the acolytes in the Guildhall of the Alchemists where they can be stored safely.”

Dany drank from her cup of sweet Amber wine from the Summer Isles. “I don’t want it stored. I want it destroyed.”

Those around the table stared at her, including Olenna Tyrell and Ellaria Sand. Tyrion smiled, and his heart swelled with affectionate pride. She caught his gaze and fought back a grin. “Wildfire is treacherous. I forbid its creation. I forbid its possession. I want the stuff removed from existence. And if any acolytes insist on working with it secretly within the Guildhall, I’ll introduce them to my dragons and they’ll learn all about burning firsthand.”

Varys bowed his head. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

Tyrion pursed his lips and shrugged, lifting his glass of wine to his lips. “Tomorrow we ride for the capital. We’ll see what awaits us.” Dany’s stomach knotted with nerves, a flurry of emotions swirling inside of her.

In ten days’ time, the queen’s van approached King’s Landing. Grey Worm and a select few of the most talented Unsullied led in front of the queen, her Hand, Missandei and the rest of her household. The road they had taken was leading their procession to the Gate of the Gods, one of seven huge gates and situated in the western corner of the wall surrounding the city. The choice felt wrong to Dany.

“We should have entered through the Dragon Gate,” she told her Hand from where she sat atop her white stallion. “No one could ever deny that I am a dragon. But I have never claimed to be a god. And I never shall.”

“Your Grace, the Dragon Gate opens upon the scorched ruin of the Dragonpit,” said Tyrion, gripping the reins of his own horse as he rode beside her. “You’d either have to take the Street of Silk and pass by the line of brothels, or go around the other side and ride through Flea Bottom slum. I don’t think whores or the stench of shit and piss to be the proper greeting for a queen upon arrival to her city. The Gate of the Gods is wider and far more splendid, and that’s where you are expected by the people.”

The gate was closed as they reached it. There were exquisitely detailed carvings on the gatehouse and over the portcullis, and the faces of the Seven had eyes that seemed to stare at them as they approached. Dany’s stomach tightened fiercely and a knot of anxiety formed in her chest. Why was the gate closed? What if the city didn’t allow her inside? What would she do?

The Gate of the Gods then began to rise. Dany’s breathing quickened and tears pricked her eyes. Tyrion glanced up at her. “Are you ready?”

“Are you?” she asked in reply, smirking at him as the iron gate continued to rise. “The Hand of the Queen is the second-most powerful person in the Seven Kingdoms. You will speak with my voice, command my armies, draft my laws. You will even sit upon the Iron Throne to dispense my justice, whenever I am absent, or ill, or otherwise indisposed. It’s a responsibility as large as the realm itself.”

“And I am a small man,” he said.

She scoffed. “Only in appearance. You cast a very large shadow.”

He smiled to himself. “Yes, Your Grace. I am ready.”

Just past the Gate of the Gods was a street that led straight to the Red Keep on the other side of the city. The Sept of Baelor had once stood in the half-way point in the middle of King’s Landing, but it was now just a tumbledown ruin. The market square inside the gate, which normally would have been thronged with farmers selling vegetables, was clear of people. Instead, throngs lined the square on both sides, and all along the street as far as the eye could see. Thousands had turned out to greet the arrival of the dragon queen.

As their van marched through the gates, the people gave a loud cheerful cry. The queen’s heart pounded in her chest, her blood raced in her veins, with the enthusiastic response of all those who greeted her. The women had all worn their best, and half the men had children on their shoulders. Every face was smiling. They were waving long streamers of red and orange and gold silk, like flames dancing in the wind. Banners with the sigil of House Targaryen, a red three-headed dragon breathing fire on a black field, were also waved. As the people lining the street cheered and threw flowers and streamers, Dany felt their love and acceptance, in spite of all they had struggled through in recent years, during Cersei's reign, and as far back as the later years of her father’s rule.

It was some time before they neared the Red Keep, people cheering their procession all the way through the city. The roaring of dragons was heard in the distance out over the water, Drogon and Viserion arriving from Dragonstone. The crowd gasped, their widened eyes lifting to the sky above them. And when the dragons came into view, circling the Red Keep, the people sent up a roar so loud Dany thought it could have been heard all the way in Winterfell.

*****

They had been traveling through the Neck for over a week, stopping to make camp as the sun set and then rising with the morning sun. The drizzle that had begun when they’d departed Greywater Watch turned into a soft steady rain. Some days they never saw the sun at all, but sat in their rowboat beneath a leaden sky with their hoods pulled up to keep the water out of their faces. It was a heavy rain, swelling the boggy streams and stripping the trees of their hanging curtains of green fungus. The constant patter made idle talk more bother than it was worth, so the traveling companions spoke only when they had something to say to each other, but that was seldom. Their crannogmen guides hadn’t appeared to speak together much either. The only one in their own boat who hadn’t felt absolutely miserable sitting in the constant rain was Theon.

On the first night they’d made camp, Sansa grasped hold of Theon’s hand as he’d helped her out of the rowboat. Once she was on the mossy shore, she gave him a heartfelt smile. “Thank you. And thank you for what you did, you know… You saved my life twice now.”

He blushed, lowering his gaze. “I just hope a third time won’t be required, my lady.”

“Why are you thanking Turncloak?” snapped Arya. “He doesn’t deserve thanks. He deserves to pay for what he did.”

“He already has paid for his crimes, Arya. Above and beyond, he’s paid for what he’s done.”

She gave her a skeptical look. “He looks well enough. He doesn’t even bear any scars. He left Winterfell sacked and burned. He betrayed Robb. He betrayed Father. He would’ve killed Bran and Rickon if they hadn’t escaped.”

Sansa had taken her sister by the elbow and led her some feet away from where Theon stepped away, frowning and sullen, to join the crannogmen and Gendry as they began setting up their camp. “Some scars lie where they can’t be seen. And some scars, Arya…” She sighed, and then met her sister’s eyes with a steady gaze. “Some scars are so deep only the gods can see them. Theon has paid dearly for what he did to Winterfell, for betraying Robb’s trust. He bitterly regrets what he did. The time may come when he will need you, when you will need him, as surely as sisters need brothers. It would be unwise and unfair to cast him off now. And have you ever considered the thought that if Theon and the Ironborn hadn’t gotten to Winterfell first, the Boltons surely would have? Bran and Rickon were able to escape from Theon. They would _not_ have escaped Ramsay Bolton. I’m sure you remember what the Boltons used to do to their enemies. The flayed man that had adorned their House banners was not chosen by happenstance. Think about that for a while.”

She’d then walked away, leaving Arya to her own thoughts. That night, they’d shared a tent on the mossy bank, huddled together under the warm woolen cloaks Sansa had sewn. The rain had forced her to pack away her grey-green cloak in her canvas bag, for fear the wills would be ruined. As they lay together, face to face, Arya had finally struck up the courage to bring up the topic that had weighed heavily on her mind for some time.

“Your baby…,” she’d whispered. “Jon is the father, isn’t he? That’s why you were so distraught.”

Sansa sighed. “Yes.”

Arya chewed her lip. “But now that he’s not truly our brother, you’re happy?”

“Well, I… Yes. But… I don’t know what’s going to happen. It’s complicated.”

“Everyone will have to find out who he is, if he’s going to wed you,” Arya had said.

Sansa nodded, her brows creasing with worry. “I know.”

She hesitated. “Do you think he’ll want everyone to know? Will the northmen accept him if he does?”

“I… I don’t know. I hope so.”

There had been another long pause, and then more questions. “Do you really think the Others will find a way south of the Wall? Will we have to fight? What if they come to Winterfell?”

Her eyes widened. “Arya, don’t talk about them!” she whispered fervently. “Not at night. Please!”

“I’m sorry.” She’d then waited some moments, listening to the night sounds of the swamp around them. “Sansa. When you…” She grimaced at the thought. “When you… with Jon… you didn’t know he was our cousin.”

“Uh…” She didn’t know what to say.

Arya looked at her with a confused expression. “If you thought he was your brother, why… I mean, everyone knows about Jaime and Cersei. And they are…”

Sansa closed her eyes, sighing. “I can’t explain it. It just happened.”

“You love him.”

“Yes.”

She thought back to memories from their time at the Twins. “He loves you.”

Smiling, her sister’s eyes sparkled in the darkness. “Yes.”

Arya chewed on her bottom lip. “Sansa, when you… laid with Jon… what was it like?”

“It was…” She smiled, and felt her cheeks grow hot. “It was like we were the only two people in the world. Everything else just stopped, and it was like nothing else existed but him and me and how he made me feel. We were pressed together, as tight as possible, but it felt like that wasn’t close enough. It would never be close enough unless we could merge into one person. I never wanted that feeling to end.”

“Yes, but… cocks just look like such ridiculous things, don’t they? And it just seems like it would be so strange, as if someone was shoving their finger up your nose.”

Sansa burst out laughing, and then Arya had followed.

Nearby, Gendry turned to the young man sharing his tent. “What do you think they’re giggling about?” he’d whispered.

Theon had sighed in response. “I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do.”

When they neared Moat Cailin, the rain stopped and the sun returned, but the air grew even colder. In the mornings, they would awaken to hard, frozen mud, the surface of the murky waters coated in a thin layer of ice. Their boats and oars breaking up the frozen surface of the streams, they would then continue on their journey to the ancient stronghold. On the morning of their twelfth day since leaving Greywater Watch, the sun was shining through the tree leaves of the swamp, and the crannogmen had said they should reach their destination by midday.

“Someone tell us a story,” said Gendry as he rowed. “I’m bored.”

“How about Arya?” Theon replied, his face smug. “Let’s hear all about these famous killings with your greatsword Needle. Warriors always have stories to tell. Come on, let’s hear it.”

Sansa grimaced, and turned to look up at her sister, shaking her head.

“Why don’t you tell one your Old Nan’s stories?” suggested Gendry. “I never had an Old Nan. I didn’t hear much stories growing up.”

She twitched her mouth, thinking. “Which one? She had so many.”

Her sister blushed, fighting back a smile. “Tell one about the Targaryens.”

Arya smirked. “All right.” She thought for a moment, and then began her tale. “One hundred fifty years before the downfall of Mad King Aerys, Viserys I Targaryen ruled. He had three children by his wife, Queen Aemma, but only one survived to be an adult, their daughter Rhaenyra. As he had no sons, Viserys began training her to be his heir and successor. At the death of his wife, he declared to the realm that Rhaenyra would sit upon the throne after him, even though the precedent was that the throne should go to next living male heir. But one year later, Viserys remarried. He and Queen Alicent then had four children together – Aegon II, Helaena, Aemond, and Daeron.”

“Viserys wed Rhaenyra to Ser Laenor Velaryon, who had Targaryen blood, strengthening his plans for her succession. Rhaenyra then had three sons – Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey. Six years after she married Laenor, he was murdered in the Year of the Red Spring. It was called that because a lot of people died that year. Anyway, she then married her uncle, Prince Daemon Targaryen, the younger brother of Viserys. They had a son together, Aegon III. Now, Rhaenyra and her stepmother Queen Alicent hated each other, and their sons grew up hating each other too. Alicent’s father, Ser Otto Hightower, hated Prince Daemon for some reason. I don’t know.”

“Eventually, King Viserys fell sick with an infection and then died. Queen Alicent called the small council together. Most of them wanted to crown her son Aegon II but the master of coin wanted to crown Rhaenyra as the rightful successor, just as Viserys had wanted.”

Theon sighed. “Everyone knows about the Targaryen civil war. Isn’t there another story?”

Gendry furrowed his brows. “I don’t know anything about it.”

“Come off it,” he scoffed. “The Dance of the Dragons? It might be the most famous war in the history of the Seven Kingdoms. Until Robert’s Rebellion, anyway.”

“If it’s a story with dragons, then I want to hear it,” he replied.

Arya scrunched up her face at Theon, who huffed and crossed his arms. “As I was saying… at this small council meeting, the master of coin just goes to storm out because he refused to listen to people plot to take Rhaenyra’s birthright away. They killed him before he could leave the room. They all believed that Rhaenyra would kill Alicent’s children if she became queen. And Alicent’s son, Aegon II, only agreed to take the throne in fear that Rhaenyra would kill his mother and siblings. Now, while this was all happening, Rhaenyra was in Dragonstone, and pregnant with Prince Daemon’s second child, completely unaware that her father had even died.”

Theon sighed. “Would you at least skip ahead to the good parts?”

Sansa shot him a look, grinning. “Let her tell it.”

“Yes, thank you, Sansa.” Arya pursed her lips at him. She then sighed. “Fine, skipping head. Aegon II was crowned. When Rhaenyra learned of her father’s death and the betrayal of her half-siblings, she went into labor and gave birth to a stillborn daughter. She swore revenge and formed the black council on Dragonstone. Her sons and Prince Daemon then flew with their dragons to the Riverlands to close off the boundaries. Rhaenyra was then crowned as queen, thanks to some lord arriving in Dragonstone with the crown of Viserys he had snuck out of King’s Landing.”

“So, Queen Rhaenyra declares Alicent and her father Otto Hightower to be traitors, but Alicent’s children would be forgiven if they bent the knee. King Aegon II then declared Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon to be traitors. Rhaenyra’s eldest son Jacaerys flew his dragon to the Vale and the North, arriving in White Harbor and Winterfell to get them on Queen Rhaenyra’s side. He was successful. The realm then became split – the Blacks against the Greens. The Blacks supported Queen Rhaenyra and the Greens supported King Aegon II.”

Arya then stood up in the rowboat, becoming animated as she told the tale. “Now to the best battles! Prince Lucerys, Rhaenyra’s second son, flew to Storm’s End on his dragon Arrax to gain the support of House Baratheon, but Alicent’s son Prince Aemond and his dragon Vhagar were already there. Aemond tried to goad Lucerys into a fight, insulting him, calling him a bastard. Lucerys, who had sworn not to fight, refused to give in to him. He then delivered his message to Lord Borros Baratheon, but he refused to support Rhaenyra and told him to leave. Borros prevented Aemond from attacking his cousin inside the castle, but allowed the prince to follow him outside. Mounted on his dragon, Aemond caught up with Lucerys during a raging storm over Shipbreaker Bay. Vhagar was five times bigger, and so had the advantage. His jaws closed on the neck of Arrax, crushing it, and the smaller dragon fell broken into the sea. The head and neck washed ashore three days later, along with the corpse of Lucerys.”

An unsettling feeling began to rise in the pit of Sansa’s stomach as she listened to Arya continue the story of the civil war. “So the lords of the Vale and the North were assembling their forces to join the rest of the Blacks at Harrenhal in the Riverlands. Aegon II had been beheading various lords for pledging support to Rhaenyra and the king’s Hand decided to go after House Staunton at Rook’s Rest. The Greens had hoped to lure the Blacks into a trap there. Ravens were sent to Rhaenyra and Princess Rhaenys, Aemon’s daughter, arrived at the Crownlands castle with her dragon Meleys. The dragon was attacked with longbows, crossbows, and even scorpions! Both Aegon II on his dragon Sunfyre and Aemond on Vhagar were waiting, and the three dragons battled. Meleys might’ve had a chance against Vhagar alone, but couldn’t survive a two-against-one attack. The massive jaws of Meleys closed around Sunfyre's neck, but Vhagar fell upon them, causing all three dragons to crash to the ground. From the ashes, only Vhagar rose again. Sunfyre had one wing half torn from his body, and King Aegon II suffered from broken bones and severe burns. Rhaenys was found completely burned next to Meleys.”

Arya took a deep breath. “Many more battles occurred, many more Targaryens and dragons died, of course.”

Theon had sat watching her with wide eyes. “Aren’t you going to tell the tale of the Battle Above the Gods Eye? That was the best one!”

“Oh! The Battle Above the Gods Eye was a duel that took place in the skies above Harrenhal and the Gods Eye between two of the most powerful dragons, Vhagar and Caraxes, and their riders, Prince Aemond and Prince Daemon, Rhaenyra’s husband. Old Nan said that _this_ duel was a sight to see.”

Sansa laughed. “Old Nan wasn’t there.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “You know what she meant. Anyway, Prince Daemon challenged Aemond, waiting for thirteen days at Harrenhal until Aemond stopped burning Blacks in the Riverlands to come face him. Aemond finally arrived on the fourteenth day, accompanied by his pregnant lover, Alys Rivers. After the uncle and nephew talked briefly, Aemond passionately kissed Alys goodbye. He then mounted his dragon. The sun was setting as the two dragons took to the sky. The dragons' shrieks and roars could be heard from a dozen miles away. So bright was the dragonfire that people in the lands all around feared the sky was on fire. Caraxes slammed into Vhagar, locking his jaws on Vhagar's neck. Both dragons were grappling as they descended from the sky. Caraxes's jaw continued to tighten around Vhagar's neck even as Vhagar's teeth tore Caraxes's wing and his claws opened Caraxes's belly. Prince Daemon leapt from his saddle on his dragon Caraxes on to Vhagar. Daemon then drove his Valyrian steel blade, Dark Sister, through his nephew's eye socket just as both dragons crashed into the surface of Gods Eye lake below, sending up a gush of water so high that it was as tall as the Kingspyre Tower at Harrenhal.”

She sighed, sitting back down in her seat at the front of the rowboat. “Vhagar's body was found years later, with Prince Aemond's armored corpse still chained to the saddle with Dark Sister through his eye. Vhagar's skull was brought to King's Landing and displayed on the walls of the throne room. Dark Sister was given back to House Targaryen. Caraxes lived long enough to crawl from the lake back to the shore, where he died near Harrenhal. But Daemon's body was never found. Old Nan said that some claimed Daemon survived and later went to find his lover, a Targaryen bastard girl named Nettles.”

Theon scoffed. “Prince Daemon's body was carried away by the lake currents, or he was eaten by fish.”

“Yes, probably,” Arya replied. “With Aegon II out burning the forces of the Blacks, Rhaenyra entered King’s Landing and took the Iron Throne. Some people rejoiced, but then it all became chaos. There was no order, and the city turned wild. There ended up being riots in King’s Landing. Targaryen bastards were rising up with the deaths of Alicent and Rhaenyra’s children, staking claims to the throne, becoming knights, trying to get the people on their side. The people stopped believing that Rhaenyra could protect them. Crazed prophets led mobs through the city. Rioters stormed the gates. They then stormed the Dragonpit, killing all the dragons inside. Rhaenyra fled the city, leaving her youngest son Aegon III behind in Maegor’s Holdfast. She eventually returned to Dragonstone, but Aegon II was there and she was fed to the wounded dragon, Sunfyre. Aegon II then returned to King’s Landing and took back the throne.”

“I think we can all conclude that when two Targaryens have a claim to the Iron Throne, nothing good comes from it,” mused Gendry. “At least there’s only one Targaryen left, and she’s the only one with dragons. The realm has had enough of war. A civil war with dragons is the last thing we need.”

“But then again, Daenerys is a woman,” Theon said. “The only female Targaryen to have ever sit the throne was Princess Rhaenyra, and it was a disaster. If a male was ever found, he would come first in the Targaryen line of succession.” He then looked at Arya’s widening eyes. “Well, unless he was a bastard. So there’s probably no need to worry.”

Arya fell silent as she stared at Theon. Her gaze then slowly met her sister’s, and their eyes held a long moment. Sansa swallowed, her throat tightening. Would Jon want everyone to know he was Rhaegar’s trueborn son? Would he even want people to think he was just Rhaegar’s bastard? What if Daenerys found out about him? Would there be another war? And what could Jon be possibly willing to do to avoid that from happening, to put the greater good ahead of his own desires? As the ruined stronghold of Moat Cailin finally came into view, her stomach tied into knots as feelings of uncertainty welled up inside her.

*****

Tyrion knocked and entered the queen’s chambers. She now occupied the royal apartments within Maegor’s Holdfast, the massive square fortress inside the heart of the Red Keep. The castle-within-a-castle was the strongest place in King’s Landing. Dany was standing in front of a tall shuttered window, looking out upon the city, her city, as the sun began to set on the horizon. Fires blazed in the twin hearths at either end of the bedchamber, filling the room with a red glow.  

When they had first entered the Red Keep, Cersei’s red cloaks, the House Lannister guards that she’d left behind to defend the castle, had been escorted outside the city, their return forbidden. The two thousand gold cloaks that made up the City Watch of King’s Landing, sworn defenders of the Iron Throne and enforcers of the law, were also promptly dismissed and replaced with three thousand Unsullied. The remaining five thousand Unsullied, six thousand newly-acquired sellswords, and her Dothraki horde were set up in camps in the lands surrounding the city until more permanent establishments could be made for them.

When they'd entered the cavernous throne room of the Red Keep, sunlight shone through the high narrow windows and spilled across the floor, laying golden stripes upon the walls where the heads of dragons had once hung. The stone that greeted them had been covered with tapestries, vivid with the Lannister lion and the colors of gold and crimson. Her Hand had immediately ordered their removal.

At the front of the room was the immense ancient seat of Aegon the Conqueror, an ironwork beauty of spikes and sharp edges and tangled metal. It didn’t look like it was comfortable to sit. _“A king should never sit easy,”_ Aegon the Conqueror had said, when he commanded his armorers to forge a great seat from the swords of his enemies. She gazed at the throne of her destiny, the achievement she’d been striving for so long. Her heart swelled in her chest, nerves fluttered in her stomach.

“Do you want to sit on the throne, Your Grace?” Tyrion had asked her, giving her a smile.

Dany had stared at the Iron Throne, and moved closer to it. But fear knotted her stomach, and she’d halted. “Not yet. I think it’ll be best to wait until the coronation.”

She now turned from the window and stared at him, her violet-blue eyes sparkling with happiness as she smiled. He smiled in return and moved further into the room until he stood next to her. She dropped to her knees, smiling wide as she gazed into his face. She gently pulled him closer and kissed him. He could taste the wine on her lips. She reached down to the hem of her silk gown and pulled it up over her head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. He felt her firm breasts pressed against him as her deft fingers went to the fastenings of his clothing.

He pulled away from her. “Not now.”

“That’s what you always say,” she said teasingly, her fingers moving to the lacings on his breeches. “Don’t you want me? Are you not attracted to me?”

“You are sweeter and more beautiful than anyone I’ve ever known. No man with all his parts could ever look at you and not desire you.” It wasn’t _his_ attraction to _her_ that he doubted. He hadn’t minded too much about being naked in the company of whores. A queen was something different, and Daenerys was something else entirely. He hated what he saw in the mirror, and didn’t want to see revulsion in her eyes if she were to see what he saw every day.

He shook his head and removed her hands from his clothes. “But now is not the time. You’re drunk on the euphoria of conquest. The reality of ruling has yet to set in. A lot of work has to be done. Your people are hungry, and have been mistreated by the Crown for far too long. But first we need to plan your coronation. Until then, nothing is official. Only after the coronation can the people start putting their trust in your rule.”

Dany sighed, reaching for her silk gown and wrapping it around her front. “I only wanted to celebrate.”

“We can celebrate later,” he told her.

“When?” She quickly asked without hesitation.

Tyrion laughed, averting his eyes.

She pursed her lips. “Well if you don’t want to please me, I’ll just have to call on my handmaiden to warm my bed tonight. She’s sweet and skillful, but all her kisses taste of duty. I don’t want duty. I want passion. I want someone who loves me.”

“She, uh, warms your bed for you often?” His eyes widened, and he swallowed, images of her young Dothraki maid swimming in front of his eyes.

“Yes, before Daario.” She paused. “And… a few times since Daario, on the ship when we sailed for Westeros and then once at the Twins. That was the last. I’d always pretend it was Drogo holding me. Sometimes Drogo’s face would turn into Daario’s. But then…” Her cheeks reddened, and she lowered her gaze. “It was your face.”

His heart swelled in his chest. His hands went to her hair as his lips captured hers. But he broke the kiss after a few moments. “I have to meet with Lord Varys and Grey Worm. There are things that need to be organized, tonight. But I’ll be back and we’ll celebrate. I swear it.”

Dany smiled. “All right.”

With one last swift kiss, Tyrion turned and walked quickly out of the chambers before his growing arousal forced him to stay. Upon meeting with Varys, Grey Worm, and Missandei, he got down to work. He discussed the newly-established gold cloaks of the City Watch, who were now overseeing the Red Keep’s defenses as well as the gates of King’s Landing. He set a date for the coronation, and discussed possible choices for the queen’s council as well as the Queensguard. Varys asked if reconstruction should begin on the Dragonpit, which had lain in ruins since the Targaryen civil war, but the Hand was insistent that Daenerys refused to confine her dragons ever again.

He was then back inside Maegor’s Holdfast, walking past the Unsullied guards outside the queen’s royal apartments, who were now adorned in black armor and gold cloaks, and stepped inside her chambers. The embers burned hotly in the twin hearths of the bedchamber, filling the room with their warmth. Dany lay nude on the large featherbed, the flames flickered across the soft curves of her body, darkening her shadows and highlighting her perfect roundness. Tyrion drank in the sight of her. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Tender desire flowed through his veins, and he needed to touch her, to feel her soft and warm skin under his hands. Just the sight of her was enough to make him hard.

Dany sat up on her elbows, gazing at him as he continued to stare. Heat spread through her, sweet and thick like warm honey, and a completely separate feeling from the warmth of the fire. Hot desire began pooling at her center. He let his garments fall to the floor, and then crawled onto the bed. He gently pushed her legs apart and kissed along her inner thighs. Her nearness, her sweet scent, the taste of her skin, turned his blood into flames. Her back arched off the bed when his mouth found her sensitive flesh, and he licked at her sweetness until her cunt and his beard were both soaked. Once she started moaning and shuddering, he climbed up and thrust himself inside.

When he entered her, she cried out, her inner muscles working around him to accommodate his size, and he nearly exploded. He sucked her nipples until she cried out again. Her cunt became the world, and she forgot everything else. She forgot about Rhaegal and Jon Snow, forgot about the Iron Throne and all that weighed upon her, forgot about her exiled youth, her enemies, and all those who had betrayed her, forgot about her dead husband and son, forgot her failures. The only things that mattered were his mouth, his hands, and his cock inside her. He fucked her until she screamed, and then fucked her again until she wept, before he was finally overcome with his own pleasure and filled her womb with his seed.

They lay in bed, listening to the night sounds of the city and gazing at each other. Her body was a marvel to him, and to his delight, she wasn’t repulsed by his. "I love you, Tyrion," she whispered before they went to sleep. “I love that no matter where we are or who we are with, you’re the smartest person in the room. I love your voice, and the way you speak to me. I love that you are gentle, but rough when you need to be. I love the way that you always tell me the truth, even when I don’t want to hear it. I love the way you look at me, the way you see me, and not my name or my titles. Daario didn’t love me. He loved the dragon queen who would make him a king if she’d only marry him.”

She sighed, and then smiled. “I love your name. It goes with mine. Dany and Tyrion. Tyrion and Dany.”

“Dany?” he questioned, his expression amused.

“It was the name given me when I was a child,” she replied, shrugging. “But no one’s called me by that since Jorah.” Sadness threatened to breach her contentedness at the thought of her friend, long gone, and she quickly went back to the topic at hand. “And I love your face, your smile, your hands, your cock, and your stupid jokes.”

He frowned. “You never laugh at them.”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “I’m not supposed to.” She then grinned. “But know that I’m laughing on the inside.”

Tyrion chuckled, but then his face fell as he stared at the ceiling. He’d heard sweet words from the mouths of young women before. All lies, all feigned, and all for gold. But their faces seemed to fade away as he turned to look at Daenerys. Of course whores would speak sweet lies to him, but why would she? She could have anyone she wanted. Or perhaps not. The person she truly wanted had died long ago, in the desert lands south of the Dothraki sea. “I love you too, my queen.”

Dany's dreams were dark and terrible that night, and she woke three times from half-remembered nightmares. The lemon tree and the red door closing, barring her from the only place she’d felt truly happy. A blue-eyed king and a palace of ice. A dragon closing its massive jaws around the neck of another, breaking it before the smaller fell to its death. After the third time she was too restless to go back to sleep and she moved to stand in front of the shuttered window.

Moonlight streamed into the room, casting a dim white across the marble floors. A cold breeze was blowing. The days and nights were growing colder. Her Hand slept soundly on the bed, his lips slightly parted. He shifted and the bed linens fell, exposing the thick length between his legs. For a moment she was tempted. It was Drogo she wanted, but perhaps Tyrion. She had meant what she said. She didn’t know where she’d be without him, and for the first time since Drogo’s death she felt something close to real love.

She wrapped a wool blanket around her shoulders and looked out upon the city. She thought back to her arrival in the Red Keep earlier, when she’d stepped into the Throne Room. She’d half expected it to start snowing, like in the vision, like in her nightmares. Nowhere in the Seven Kingdoms did the winter matter more than in the North. And despite the brutality of winter, there were very few times in the history of the realm when the men of the North marched south of the Neck. One of those times had been at the end of the Targaryen civil war.

The fear of a harsh winter had driven the northmen to gather beneath the banners of Lord Roderick Dustin and Lord Cregan Stark and march south, to die fighting for Queen Rhaenyra. Cregan Stark marched his army of childless, homeless, and younger sons searching for adventure, for the chance to die in glory. Yet when Lord Stark marched his army of northmen into King's Landing, they arrived to find King Aegon II had been poisoned. He had planned to punish Storm's End, Casterly Rock, and Old Town for having supported Aegon II instead of Queen Rhaenyra. But envoys had already been sent by the small council to the Rock and Storm's End and Old Town in an attempt to make peace.

While they waited for news of the envoys’ success or failure, the realm frozen in fear at the thought of more war, Lord Cregan Stark took control of the court and sat upon the Iron Throne for six days. He had twenty-two men arrested in the name of Rhaenyra’s son, Aegon III, a child of eleven. This came to be known as the Hour of the Wolf. Following the coronation of Aegon III, Lord Stark forced him to make him his Hand. He served as Hand of the King for one day, during the trials and executions of those arrested. The very next day, Lord Stark resigned as Hand and returned to the North. The Hour of the Wolf was over. No one had ever held the office so briefly.

Gazing out into the night, Dany saw Drogon and Viserion soaring through the sky. Her children flew back and forth between Dragonstone and King’s Landing, the journey not being a long one. Two dragons circled the city, always remaining close to their mother, always returning to her, no matter how often they flew off to their island home. _“There must be one more,”_ her brother Rhaegar had said in her vision inside the House of the Undying in Qarth. _“A dragon has three heads.”_ Yet one was missing.

Would Jon Snow ever march south to King’s Landing? Once the threat of the monsters from old wives’ tales proved empty, what would stop him from seeking glory elsewhere? He was a Targaryen, the son of Rhaegar. Tyrion had only defended Jon Snow, claimed he wanted nothing more than Winterfell, and had expressed disbelief that he was anyone other than Ned Stark's bastard. But she knew better. She knew Targaryens. Jon Snow yearned for glory, for greatness. It was in his blood. What would stop him from marching south to the capital, the love of the realm behind him, and placing himself on the Iron Throne as Rhaegar’s son? She refused to allow another Hour of the Wolf to arise.

But if Jon Snow never came south, then neither would Rhaegal. She felt a deep void inside her that could not be filled. Her love for her dragons was no less fierce than a mother for her babes. And one was gone, would never return. Unless she acted, unless she went after him. Her child had been taken away and was in the possession of another. Her children belonged with her, they belonged with their mother. Dany vowed in her heart that she was going to get Rhaegal back.


	27. The Wolf And The Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He wanted it, Jon knew then. He wanted it as much as he had ever wanted anything. _I have always wanted it,_ he thought, guiltily. _May the gods forgive me._ It was a hunger inside him, sharp as a dragonglass blade. A hunger... he could feel it. It was food he needed, prey, a red deer that stank of fear or a great elk proud and defiant. He needed to kill and fill his belly with fresh meat and hot dark blood. His mouth began to water with the thought.
> 
> It was a long moment before he understood what was happening. When he did, he bolted to his feet. 'Ghost?'" ~ A Storm of Swords, Jon XII

The horses were rearing in terror, lashing out, maddened by the smell of dragon. The men fought to maintain their hold on the reins, to maintain control of their steeds. When the jade-green wings of the dragon appeared, and its enormous tail lashing like a whip, a burst of yellow flame turned night into day for half a heartbeat when it roared. He filled with frozen dread; remembering when Tyrion Lannister had told him during the welcoming feast at the Twins that while in Meereen, the green dragon had shown itself to be far more dangerous than the white.

He quickly came to the realization that dragonfire could be the last thing he was going to see before he died. As the green dragon flew closer, looming massive in the night sky, he closed his eyes and dreamed of Sansa’s face. Waiting for death, he saw her smile, the blue of her eyes, felt her soft skin pressed to his and her warm breath against his face, heard her whisper in his ear, _“I love you, Jon.”_

And then the dragon merely flew overhead, passing them by. It did not attack them. No one was burned. Its massive wings stirred the cold night air, circling, coming back around again. The shrieks of terrified horses still rang into the night. But still the dragon would not attack. Jon’s stomach tightened and something told him that the dragon never would, that the dragon might be joining the vast horde of soldiers departing the Riverlands to head for the North.

“I thought it was about to turn us all into charred meat,” Lord Wyman Manderly said as the horses began to calm.

“If it didn’t attack, would it have been sent by Daenerys?” said Davos. “I’m not inclined to believe that dragons make very good spies.”

Jon stared at the dragon as it soared over them in widening circles, as if waiting for something. _It’s waiting for us to start moving again,_ he thought. _It’s going with us._ He heaved a sigh. “Let’s just keep moving. If it was going to attack, it would’ve already done it.”

The van then continued northeast to the kingsroad, and once meeting the main overland route that extended all the way north to Castle Black and all the way south to Storm’s End, they made their way towards the Neck. They rode through heavy rains and some days they never saw the sun. The green dragon still prowled while they traveled north, soaring above them in wide circles over the land on great green wings. But he never attacked. Not one of Jon’s northmen was harmed, nor any of the southron forces following behind them on the kingsroad.

After a twelve day journey on the narrow causeway through the Neck, they finally reached the familiar ruined yet formidable stronghold of Moat Cailin. And still the dragon followed. The three green moss-covered towers loomed ahead of them and all was quiet as they approached, except for the sounds made as massive green wings stirred the air above them. House Reed’s banners bearing their sigil, the black lizard-lion against a field of grey-green, hung from the Children’s Tower and Drunkard’s Tower beneath the direwolf sigil. The Stark banner alone still hung from the Gatehouse Tower. With untold relief, Jon caught sight of the camp of the four hundred northmen, including a large band of wildlings, he had left behind. Although nothing bad appeared to have befallen them, no doubt they were anxious for news of their king and yearned for home. They expressed joy and relief when Jon entered in among them.

The crannogmen were at the Gatehouse Tower to greet the King in the North. They requested permission to shower the green dragon with their poisoned arrows, but he commanded them not to attack. The thought of killing the dragon deeply troubled him. They treated his reaction with confusion, but obeyed their king nonetheless.

“Well, I think we got ourselves a queer dragon,” said Lord Glover as they stood outside watching it on top of the Children’s Tower. There it perched, making no aggressive moves, showing no signs of the intention to alight the swampy bog with flames. “It doesn't threaten. It doesn't attack. It hasn't even taken any of the horses for its meals.”

“Perhaps we can make some use of it in the wars to come,” the king replied. “If it follows us all the way home, that is.”

After two days of rest, they broke camp and made to continue their journey north to Winterfell. To Jon’s worry and disappointment, the crannogmen at Moat Cailin had heard nothing of Sansa or Arya, nor had they received any messages from Howland Reed. He and Sansa had left the Twins one day apart, and he hoped she’d been waylaid and taken to Greywater Watch. The crannogmen reassured him that as they did not make use of ravens, it took longer for messages to be delivered across the vast swamp. Just as he departed the Gatehouse Tower, he told them to send word to Lord Reed. If the Ironborn or the Unsullied forces of Daenerys Targaryen come up the Neck, the crannogmen were to bleed them every step of the way.

Lord Manderly glanced over his shoulder as they walked away from the Gatehouse Tower, before turning and addressing the king. “If the crannogmen cannot hold the Neck against our southern enemies, if they should fail you…”

“They will not fail,” he answered confidently as he approached his horse, taking the reins from one of his guards. “Eddard Stark knew the worth of Howland Reed. He trusted him. I shall as well.”

The moment Jon gripped the reins and his steed's mane as black as jet, mounting the grey stallion, the green dragon leapt from the Children’s Tower, soaring into the air as swift as an arrow loosed from a longbow, and began flying ahead of them, leading the van. The King in the North then departed the Neck, along with five hundred northmen and wildlings, and four thousand soldiers from the Riverlands and Westerlands.

 _“The North is hard and cold, and has no mercy,”_ Ned Stark would often say to his wife and children, and Jon found himself remembering the familiar words. _“And nothing burns like the cold, but only at first. Then it fills up inside you until you no longer have any strength to fight it. It’s easier to just sit or lie down. You become weak and drowsy, and everything starts to fade as you drift to sleep. But then you never wake up.”_

One month into their journey from the Neck, and they were still traveling through the Barrowlands. Winter had made the journey longer and more arduous than in summer. When the morning sun rose, their camp woke to nothing except snowy silence. The sky turned from black to grey to white, but as the sun remained hidden behind clouds, the day didn’t appear to be so much brighter than the night before. Jon awoke cramped and cold beneath his sleeping furs. He also woke to the taste of blood in his mouth. After quickly ascertaining that it wasn’t his own blood, he then realized he must’ve been dreaming again. Ghost was no doubt hunting somewhere. The trumpets then blew to rouse the men to make ready and mount up. Something was wrong. Why had the trumpets sounded before they’d even breakfasted?

He quickly dressed and was just belting Longclaw around his hips when Davos entered his tent, bowing his head. “Your Grace.”

“What’s going on?” the king asked.

“There’s a bad storm brewing in the east, heading this way. We need to march as far north as possible, get out of the Barrowlands as quickly as possible, or we’ll be walled in by ice and snow.”

Jon’s eyes widened. Trapped in a storm, snowbound and unmoving, would only mean starvation and death for his men. Wrapping himself in the fur-lined black cloak Sansa had made for him at the Wall, he emerged from his tent and went to walk about the camp, accompanied by Davos and his three guards, Bill Liddle, Luke Norrey, and Owen Wull. The southron men looked worse for wear. They were gaunt and haggard, some pale and sick, others with red, blotchy, wind-burned faces. But the northmen and wildlings appeared healthy and robust, strong men with pink cheeks and thick beards, clad in fur and wool and iron mail. He knew they were cold and hungry too, but the marching had gone much easier for them.

As he inspected the camp, the men stood straight, putting on brave faces for their king. He received news that two men had perished in the night from cold or sickness. One of the men appeared to have gone out of the camp to take a piss, and then lay down in the snow, never waking come morning. Jon ordered the bodies of the men to be burned, before ordering their horses to be stripped of their saddles. The soldiers then began eating a meager breakfast as snow began to fall from the sky. Jon gripped the reins of the two geldings and walked them out of the camp. When his guards followed to the camp boundary, they paused at the edge, fearful eyes widening as they watched their king walk away through the snow. They then grudgingly followed.

The air grew warmer with every step they took, and the horses grew more restless, the guards having to grip their reins and bridles as they began rearing in panic. In the snowy white all around, two bronze eyes then rose up, brighter than polished shields, glimmering from their own heat, shining behind a shroud of smoke rising from the dragon’s nostrils. Jon’s eyes ran over the scales of dark green, like the color of moss in the forest at twilight, just as the sun sets. The dragon opened its mouth, a wave of heat and light washing over him, emanating from somewhere at the back of its throat. Behind a row of black teeth, like a fence of sharp knives, he glimpsed the glow of a furnace, a sleeping inferno that he knew would burn brighter and hotter than any torch or campfire. The dragon’s head was large, and its neck uncoiled like some great green snake as the head rose from the ground where it had been resting, until its bronze eyes were looking down at him.

“Rhaegal,” Jon said, his heart pounding, his palms sweating. His voice caught in his throat, and he cleared it. “Rhaegal, I’ve brought you some food.”

The guards let go of the horses, and then immediately turned to walk quickly back to the camp, but their king lingered, watching as the horses broke and ran when the shadow of the dragon loomed over them. But as fast as they were, they could not fly. Rhaegal shot up into the air and then descended on them, roaring, and then the poor animals were on fire. They kept running, though, shrieking with every step, until Rhaegal landed on them and broke their backs. The dragon couldn’t carry the carcasses, so he ate his meal right there, tearing off the charred meat as the snows melted around them, the air thick with lingering smoke and the smell of burned horsehair. When Rhaegal finished, he had only consumed one horse, leaving the other behind when he flew back towards Jon.

He turned to his wide-eyed, white-faced guards. “Tell someone to grab a wagon and come get the other cooked horse. Feed the men. And make sure the southerners are fed first, especially those who are sick.”

Bill Liddle turned and started moving quickly back towards the camp, almost at a run. Jon almost laughed. Norrey and Wull backed away, clearly afraid, but remained near their king. The dragon landed close by, and moved closer to them. Rhaegal then bent his head and neck, lowering his upper body and stretching out his left wing along the ground towards Jon. He stared, his eyes widening. Something told him that the dragon wanted him to climb onto its back. He swallowed and then turned to look at his guards, who gazed back at him with confused expressions and bulging eyes. He looked back over at the camp and saw that many were staring at them. His stomach tightened into a knot, worrying about what the men might be thinking of him and this dragon that was following them.

“We’re packing up and marching north,” Jon told the dragon. He then turned around and started walking back to the camp.

“Your Grace, you talk to it like it’s a dog,” said Norrey. “Like it’s that direwolf of yours.”

Hesitating, his stomach knotted even more. “Well, it’s best to keep peaceful relations. Or we’ll all end up like that poor beast, charred and broken, and inside the dragon’s belly.”

His guards only nodded in reply. When Jon arrived back at his tent, Raymun the young wildling man entered carrying a plate with a generous portion of cooked horsemeat, setting it down on the table. “The men are taking the tents down and getting the horses ready, Your Grace. We should be ready to depart in less than half an hour.”

“Thank you.” The king looked down at the plate of charred meat. He closed his eyes and tried to push off the hunger pangs twisting his stomach. “Raymun, take this and give it to one of the men who needs it.”

The lad stared for a moment, before bowing and doing as he was told. Jon then packed up his sleeping furs and glanced around the tent to make sure he wouldn’t be leaving anything behind when it got taken down. Moments later, Davos lifted the entrance flap and stepped inside, carrying the same plate Raymun had taken out.

Jon shook his head. “Davos, there are men out there who are sick and hungry. They need to be fed.”

“Aye, I know. And they know, too. But your men said that if all else fails, if they all perish from cold or hunger or both, _you_ are the one who must live. It is _you_ that must stay alive, no matter what. So stop being so noble for once and eat your breakfast.” He paused, realizing he’d just given a command to the king. “Uh… if you would, Your Grace,” he added, before bowing his head and exiting the tent.

Once Davos had gone, Jon attacked the dish of horsemeat like a starving man. The camp was soon disassembled and the men had mounted their horses. At the moment Jon’s foot entered the stirrup of his saddle and he swung himself onto the back of the grey stallion, Rhaegal flew into the snowy sky. Scales of green and bronze shimmered above them, his wings soaring through the air, as the van continued north to Winterfell.

*****

Sansa sat in front of a black stone hearth, warming by the smoking peat fire. Also inside the drafty great hall, Arya, Theon, and Gendry were sitting at the massive stone table in the center of the large room. They were joined by a few crannogmen, Brienne of Tarth, Podrick Payne, Ser Bronn of Stokeworth, and Ser Jaime Lannister. There they discussed Jon Snow’s departure from Moat Cailin several weeks prior, accompanied by four thousand soldiers and a green dragon. They discussed events in King’s Landing, of Daenerys taking command of the city and setting herself up in the Red Keep, and her plans for a future coronation at an as of yet unknown date.

“My sister needs to get to Winterfell as soon as possible,” said Arya. She eyed Jaime Lannister warily, wondering at his inclusion in the escort her brother had provided for them. He’d said very little since their arrival at Moat Cailin, and seemed lost inside his own head. When news of Cersei’s death reached them, she thought she’d discovered the reason for his melancholy. But Sansa too, had become quiet, and kept to herself, speaking very little and excusing herself from their discussions.

“And you will leave in the morning,” said Lord Blackmyre. The crannogman was typically short in stature, with greying brown hair and a thick beard. “Or the following morning, if you choose to stay on a little longer. Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime travelled far, and their party’s horses have been given much-needed rest for the journey to Winterfell. Our men are also preparing horses for you and your sister and your friends as well as camp supplies. All will be ready when the sun comes up on the morrow.”

Brienne looked down at the map on the table in front of them. “If the weather permits, we could make it to Winterfell in just over a month, riding twenty to thirty miles a day.”

Lord Fenn, another crannogman, shook his head. “The weather north of the Neck has not been kind, or so we’ve heard. Your trek will be much longer than that, I’m afraid.”

Arya hesitated, glancing over at Sansa sitting by the fire. “I’m not sure if my sister would be able to go twenty miles a day, every day. And we’d likely need to stop for rest at every inn and holdfast on the kingsroad between here and Winterfell, not that there are many.”

Brienne furrowed her brows. “What do you mean, my lady? What’s wrong with Lady Sansa?”

“She just…” Arya swallowed, pausing. “She hasn’t been feeling well. She almost died from greywater fever. Our travel may need to go slow.”

The eyes of Lords Fenn and Blackmyre widened, and their faces paled. “That sickness has claimed many a life here in the swamp over the years,” said the older of the two. “Lord Howland Reed’s son, Jojen, nearly died of it when he was a child.”

The other gazed down at the map. “The kingsroad is the most direct route. And now that there’s a King in the North again, it’s also the safest, even for women. The inns and holdfasts will be open to you, like in the old days, and you’ll go unmolested. After King Robb’s death and the sacking of Winterfell, doors closed across the North. It was too dangerous, with Bolton brutes riding the kingsroad and squids invading the Neck and the wolfswood. The only danger will be the North itself, the snow, the ice, the wind. But any northman or woman has little to fear, especially Starks. It’ll be hardest on southerners.”

Lord Blackmyre drummed his fingers on the stone table. “I would still caution discretion. We’ve received ravens here at Moat Cailin, inquiring over the whereabouts of Lady Stark and offering aid in her recovery. If she fell into the wrong hands…”

Arya exchanged looks with Gendry and Theon. “Have any strangers come up the causeway?” she asked.

Shaking his head, Lord Fenn sighed. “No. But there are other ways into the North than using the kingsroad through the swamp. It takes longer, but travelers from the south can take the forest to the west of us that borders the lands of House Flint. There’s also the Bite, the bay that lies between the North and the Vale of Arryn. Men could bypass the Neck entirely and sail past White Harbor up the White Knife. It’s not an easy task getting by White Harbor’s defenses, but not impossible. Or they could go upriver to the Barrowlands by taking Blazewater Bay to the west and sailing into Saltspear inlet.”

“Or they could just fly their dragons through the sky and land in Winterfell,” Bronn remarked. “That seems the quickest, overall.”

“Good point,” said Gendry.

The crannogmen nodded. “The Stark name is the best protection possible in the North, but just exercise caution when you go about declaring it,” Lord Blackmyre stated. “There could be eyes and ears whose loyalties are not to House Stark.”

Jaime turned and looked over at Sansa sitting alone by the fire. She wasn’t asleep, merely staring at the flames. He got up from the stone table and walked over towards the black stone hearth, taking the seat beside her, his gold hand coming to rest on the carved wooden arm of the chair. He cleared his throat. “Uh, Lady Stark, I hope you’re not worried about… Well, what I mean to say is…” He sighed. “I swore promises to you at the Twins, and I intend to keep my promises. I don’t want you to worry about Winterfell or the future of House Stark. I will do everything within my power to help you.”

“Even though I ran away and caused all this trouble for you?” she replied, not looking at him.

“Well, it wasn’t _too_ much trouble,” he said, smiling over at her. “Everyone runs away from something at some point in their lives.” He glanced over at Bronn and Brienne. “And if we’re going to compare, then you’ve not caused me near as much trouble as others in this room.”

She still kept her eyes on the hearth, avoiding his gaze. There was silence between them for some moments before she spoke again. “You’d wed someone you didn’t love?”

He fixed his stare on her, studying her face. It was passive, revealing no emotion. “If it was the right thing to do, the honorable thing. There was no love between Ned Stark and Catelyn Tully when they married. But that changed over time. Who’s to say it wouldn’t be the same for you?”

She kept gazing at the dim glow of the peat fire. Her stomach knotted, and her throat tightened. “You’d marry a woman if it wasn’t your child she was carrying?”

Jaime stared, eyes widening and lips parting. His throat went dry, and he swallowed. He then sighed and leaned back in his chair, turning towards the hearth, its stone blackened by the hot blazes of years past. He knew the answer to her question, for he’d asked it of himself all those years Cersei had been married to Robert. “Yes. If I loved her.”

Sansa then looked over at the golden-haired knight, gazing at his profile as he stared into the fire, a flurry of emotions inside her. Maybe the Kingslayer was a good man, just as Tyrion and Brienne had told her. And if Jon chose to never reveal his true identity, if his position was too important, not only to himself, but the kingdom… He was the King in the North, the choice would be his. And if he chose to keep the proof of who he was a secret, then she would need to make a choice herself.

When they left the Neck and entered the plains of the Barrowlands, they saw the world had turned white. A virgin landscape lay before them, sunlit and placid. The air was crisp and clear, unlike the clammy dampness of the swamp they’d left behind. The fallen snow sparkled in the sunshine, smoothing the hilly plains and the rough ground of the kingsroad with gentle undulations, becoming one vast expanse of white. And the snow still fell from the sky, silent and windless. White ravens occasionally flew overhead, but that was the only life they would see for miles.

“Did you know Lady Stark is with child?” Jaime asked Brienne in a low voice, as they rode side by side at the front of the party. He’d left behind his intricately designed armor plate and linen clothing, instead choosing woolens and iron mail and plain brown leather. He doubted whether anyone would now spot him as a Lannister at first sight, at least until they saw his golden hand.

“No,” she answered, eyes going wide. “Is that why she ran away? She won’t confess her reasons to me, and I haven’t been able to get anything out of Lady Arya or their young friends.”

He gripped the reins in his left hand. “It’s possible. Do you have any idea who the father could be? You were by her side day and night. Surely you must suspect someone.”

She did. She did suspect someone. She’d seen earnest looks and tender touches, all seemingly innocent. And yet… “If Lady Sansa has had any suitors pursuing her, then I am unaware of them. Other than that Lord Baelish constantly sniffing about.” She wasn’t about to voice her suspicions aloud. The consequences could be far-reaching, and even dangerous.

“Littlefinger.” Jaime grimaced. The new Lord Protector of the Vale was as amiable as he was clever, and had been too lowborn for any great lords to view him as a real threat. But he’d succeeded in getting himself lands, wealth, and an army, commanding the Knights of the Vale for Lord Robin Arryn, and now all he needed was the power that came with acquiring a highborn name. A name that belonged to royalty, a name that belonged to kings and queens, princes and princesses. A name like Stark.

Ten days into their journey on the kingsroad through the Barrowlands, they stopped at the Inn of the Howling Barrow just as night was gathering. The inn was a tall, timbered building of three stories that stood on the roadside at almost a direct line from the town of Barrowton, the seat of House Dustin, which laid less than a hundred leagues to the west. The Barrowton road was also completely covered in white. The old inn would offer respite from the cold wind, and the wet snow that continued to fall from the sky, blanketing the ground.

They came to a stop at the stables. Warm, yellow light shone through the inn’s windows. While they dismounted their horses and began to loosen their saddles, a boy no older than twelve years came out of the stable door. “I’ll tend to that for you, ser,” he said to Brienne. Jaime glanced at her, fighting a grin, and his eyes glinted teasingly.

She turned to face the boy. “I am no ser. But you can take our horses. See that they are fed and watered and brushed.”

The stable boy’s face reddened. “Bed your pardon, m’lady. I thought that…”

“It is no concern,” she said. “It is a common mistake.” She turned to face Jaime, whose eyes had softened, and for a moment she thought she saw tenderness in his gaze. She felt her cheeks grow hot, and she immediately turned back to hand the reins to the boy.

After handing off their horses, they entered the inn with their saddlebags over their shoulders and bedrolls tucked under their arms. The wood floor of the common room was covered in sawdust, and the air smelled of smoke and meat and ale. A roast of suckling pig was spitting and crackling over the fire, attended to by a cook. Locals sat around two wooden tables, filling up the six chairs around each. The other six tables inside sat empty. Their chatter broke off upon sight of the strangers who had entered in among them. Watching the small group of men accompanied by women, they saw no threat and went back to their chatter.

Bronn chose a larger table in the middle of the common room, which could seat eight. The innkeeper then appeared, an older man with shoulder-length white hair and shaven face. “Do you have any available rooms, my good man?” the Lord of Stokeworth asked.

“Perhaps I might,” said the innkeeper. “For them who can pay.”

“I will pay for two rooms,” Sansa replied, reaching into her fur-lined blue cloak and pulling out a small pouch.

The innkeeper caught sight of the grey direwolf embroidered across the chest of her blue gown, his eyes widening slightly as she placed some coins into his hand. He looked over her companions, his gaze falling upon Arya. He stared, swallowing. “Has anyone ever told you that you look just like the daughter of Lord Rickard Stark, Lady Lyanna? May the gods give them rest.” When he didn’t get a reply, he continued. “All right, I’ll allow two rooms for the night. Will you want supper? There’s some good pork roasting on the spit.”

“We’ll judge for ourselves whether it’s good or not,” quipped Bronn. “I’d like mine with lemon slices, if you have some.”

“Oh, of course, my lord,” the innkeeper replied, making a show of bowing his head. “I’ll just hop right outside to the lemon grove and pick some. Would you also like me to bring back some oranges and pomegranates?” He scoffed, before walking away, shaking his head. “Bloody fool.”

Bronn shrugged. “I once dined on roasted meat with lemons when I was in the company of a beautiful Dornish woman.” His expression turned wistful at the memory.

Jaime rolled his eyes. “Yes, well, that was in Dorne, now wasn’t it?”

“I’ve never seen a pomegranate,” said Gendry. He turned to his friend. “Did you have any when you were in Braavos? I’ve heard they grow in the Free Cities.”

She shook her head. Theon rolled his eyes. “Haven’t you ever looked at a map? Braavos is too far north.”

“They grow in hot places like Volantis and Lys,” Arya added. “But they were sold by the bushel in Braavos. I never had the money for them.” She smirked. “That didn’t stop me from eating them, though.” She and Gendry laughed. Sansa just shook her head, fighting a grin.

They all then supped on roast pork and baked apples. The men drank from tankards of ale while the women drank goat’s milk. They sat in comfortable silence, eating and listening to the talk around the nearby tables. The locals all had a different tale to tell, each more farfetched than the last. The heads of the House Lannister guards were impaled on spikes and rotting outside the walls of the Red Keep. Cersei was dead at Tyrion Lannister’s hands, the dwarf slicing her throat with a dagger and drinking her blood from a big gold chalice. The bodies of the Ironborn hung from the walls of the Twins. Sansa Stark was captive in some dungeon, possibly dead, or maybe a fugitive running for her life. Arya Stark had been killed by the Hound. Daenerys Targaryen was marching on the Stormlands, burning and slaughtering as she went, vowing to drink wine from the skulls of those loyal to the Baratheons. The Night’s King had returned to rule over the Wall with his ice demons. The King in the North had wakened a dragon from stone, marched north with it to Winterfell, and was going to save the Night’s Watch. One drunken taleteller then said that Rhaegar Targaryen had risen from the dead to reclaim his father's throne and was assembling a vast army to fight Daenerys for it. 

The Stark sisters exchanged knowing looks, but said nothing. Suddenly their tales became too drunken and too loud for her to endure a moment longer, and Sansa muttered her goodnights to her companions. Brienne then escorted her and Arya upstairs, following the innkeeper to their room on the second floor. The only furnishings were a bed against the wall that was wide enough to sleep six and a silver candlestick on the windowsill. Before leaving, the innkeeper lit all three candles.

The three women soon lay on the old featherbed, inside their own bedrolls. As Sansa was about to drift asleep, she suddenly heard the sound of swordplay outside in the night. She sat upright in the bed, feeling alarmed. “Who’s fighting?”

“It is just Ser Jaime and Ser Bronn,” explained Brienne from where she lay on the edge of the bed. “It’s not easy to learn to fight with your other hand, if your sword hand was taken from you.” She sighed. “I remember fighting with Jaime in the woods. He had been weak from spending months as a prisoner of your brother Robb and he was bound at the wrists. And it had been all I could do to fight off his blade. At his full strength, no knight in the Seven Kingdoms could have ever been able to stand against him. The way he could swing a sword! I know he has done many wicked things in his life, but his maiming had been shockingly cruel. It would have been kinder to slay the lion, instead of leaving him crippled.”

Sansa fell asleep that night to the sound of dancing swords. They woke to a bright and blustery day, followed by a grey one, and then days of continuous snowfall. They kept heading north on the kingsroad, riding five to six hours each day before making camp or finding a stable or an inn or big stone barn to spend the night. And every night, Sansa either watched or listened as the two knights danced, each night Jaime growing a little stronger fighting with his left hand. He’d said nothing more to her about their betrothal or her pregnancy since that night in Moat Cailin. For the first few weeks of their travel, he seldom spoke to her and when he looked at her, his face revealed little emotion. But in time he began to soften.

To her surprise, she’d felt a measure of relief that he hadn’t immediately cast her off. A knot of fear and dread had begun to tighten when she thought of their return to Winterfell. Where did Jon’s duty truly lay? With her or with the people of the North who needed him to rule, who needed him to be the son of Ned Stark? If Jon chose to keep his Targaryen lineage a secret, then what would become of her and her baby? Would Jaime Lannister hold to their betrothal, would he still be willing to wed her? Would it be so terrible if she did marry him? Each day she thought of those questions and each night she lay down to sleep, not having arrived at the answers, the knot of fear tightening even more.

*****

Tyrion crossed his bedchamber, walking past the canopied bed and wardrobe, and stepped out into the hallway. A gold cloak stood guard outside his door. He then made the exhausting trip down the long spiraling steps, departing the Tower of the Hand and making his way to Maegor’s Holdfast. Once inside, he made his way to the council chambers, finding the queen and members of the small council waiting for him. The council chambers were richly furnished with tapestries hung on the walls from Lys and Norvos and Qohor, a carved screen from the Summer Isles, Myrish carpets, and two black marble Valyrian sphynxes with eyes of polished garnet that flanked the door.

The Hand approached the table, taking a seat at one end directly across from the queen. Grand Maester Gerardys was present, having recently arrived from the Citadel in Oldtown. Also at the table sat the newly-appointed and knighted Lord Commander of the Queensguard, Ser Grey Worm, adorned in white armor and matching cloak. He’d taken to making a strange face whenever addressed as _ser_ , so Tyrion enjoyed doing just that as often as possible. The Master of whisperers, Varys, was sitting at the table as well as Missandei, the new Master of laws and justice. Ellaria Sand of Dorne and the Dowager Lady of Highgarden, Olenna Tyrell, sat at the table as advisors.

“Any news of Sansa Stark?” the queen asked her council. “Has she been sighted anywhere? Is she alive, dead, in need of help?”

“No one knows, Your Grace,” Olenna Tyrell answered. “There’s been no word, no sign of her anywhere, north or south. My money is on Petyr Baelish hiding her away somewhere.”

Varys locked eyes with Tyrion for a moment, who gave a slight nod, before the eunuch turned slightly in his chair to address the queen. “Your Grace, while the location of Lady Stark is a concern, we really should address the vacancies in the small council. We’ve yet to fill the positions of Master of ships, to oversee the navy, and Master of coin.”

Dany glanced at her Hand, and then replied. “And do you have any suggestions, Lord Varys?”

“As far as the choice for Master of ships goes, I’ll leave that to those more knowledgeable in military matters,” the eunuch said. “But may I suggest re-appointing Petyr Baelish as Master of coin?”

“Lord Baelish?” Her face hardened. She’d been informed that when Tyrion had commanded the Knights of the Vale to ride south from the Twins to face the Braavosi sellswords, his orders had been met with defiance. The knights had replied that they only took commands from their lord, Robin Arryn, who had conveniently already departed the Twins inside the carriage of Petyr Baelish, and they were breaking camp to follow them back to the Vale, with no intentions of riding south. “How can you want this man to have any kind of position within my city? What of the scheme he plotted at the Twins? Sending Cersei Lannister against us? He is to be punished for this, not trusted to join the council.”

Tyrion nodded. “Exactly, Your Grace. He is not to be trusted, and he is in fact your enemy. He’s an enemy of the entire realm, which is why he needs to be here, in King’s Landing, where we can keep a watchful eye on him. He’s much too dangerous out there in the world.”

Varys agreed. “And placing him once again in the position of Master of coin might be able to help us learn of just how the treasury came to be so monstrously depleted during the Usurper’s reign. Littlefinger has the answers, and we must learn his secrets.”

“Very well,” said the queen. “Send a raven to the Vale. If Lord Baelish does not report to King’s Landing in a month’s time, I’ll send my dragons with a message instead.”

“If we could get on to more important matters,” Olenna spoke up. “I’m not getting any younger, and I’d like to spend the rest of my time on earth at home in Highgarden, however long that might be. My old bones have grown weary, and I have had quite enough of this smelly city, thank you. I am sure Her Grace knows best, but what are we doing about the coronation? Every time we choose a date, it gets postponed.”

Dany stiffened. The Iron Throne now filled her with a dull sense of dread, and she kept dreaming of a snow storm filling the throne room just as she was about to touch it. “I don’t want my rule to be plagued with rebellion and usurpers, or whispers of rumors that I am not the rightful heir to the throne. I want these rumors squashed.”

“Your Grace, these rumors are far-fetched,” said Tyrion.

“Maester Gerardys.” The queen turned to the new arrival from Old Town, ignoring her Hand. “Is it true that banners with the direwolf sigil hang from every castle in the Westerlands, Riverlands, and Stormlands beneath their own House banners?”

The maester nervously ran his hand through his white hair. “Yes, Your Grace. We’ve received reports of such at the Citadel. Winter is here, and the smallfolk are very superstitious. It may be that they believe the Stark banner will provide some type of protection.”

She pursed her lips. “They should believe that their queen will protect them. Not an embroidered direwolf.” Her guts twisted. “Or the banners mean something else, that they’re placing their allegiance with another, with the King in the North. How soon before he stakes a claim as king of the entire realm?”

“You are the trueborn daughter of King Aerys,” said Ellaria. “No one has a higher claim than you.”

Tyrion noticed that Varys shifted ever so slightly in his seat, avoiding eye contact with anyone else at the table. His eyes narrowed, before turning to his queen. “Your Grace, this tale spun to you by Littlefinger has no truth to it. Jon Snow is the bastard of Ned Stark. There is nothing that gives any credence to the idea that he is the son of your brother, Prince Rhaegar.” Again, he noticed the determined silence of Lord Varys.

Dany felt anger flooding her stomach. “What about Rhaegal? Who will put their trust in my rule knowing that Jon Snow went north with my dragon? My own dragon chose the bastard over me. That’s what the people are saying. Lords and smallfolk alike will flock to whomever has the power of dragons, and right now Jon Snow has laid claim on my dragon! I will not stand by while the loyalty of my people is divided. And I will not stand by while this bastard rules as King in the North in defiance of the Iron Throne. He’s going to swear off that ridiculous title and bend the knee. And he’s going to surrender whatever hold he thinks he might have on my dragon and return him.”

“You still have two dragons, Your Grace,” said the Grand Maester. “More than enough to keep your throne.”

“Rhaegal is _my_ child!” she shouted. “I will _not_ give him up! I have not come all this way just for some bastard in the North to threaten everything that belongs to me! The traitorous talk that Jon Snow is the rightful heir to the throne or that he died at the Wall and rose from his icy grave as Rhaegar reborn must be silenced!”

Varys finally spoke up again. “And what do you intend to do about all this talk, Your Grace?”

The queen hesitated, thinking for a moment. “Jon Snow will never come south, it seems. I doubt even if invited. I will have to go north.”

“Gracious queen,” said Grey Worm. “Will you require the Unsullied to march north with you?”

“This is madness,” Tyrion said, shaking his head in frustration. “Madness and folly. The realm has seen enough of war.”

“It doesn’t have to mean war,” she replied, guilt twisting her insides at her Hand’s disapproval. “If Jon Snow supports me as his father supported the Usurper, I will not be ungenerous. I will gladly let him keep all his lands, titles, and honors. I’ll even legitimize him as a Stark. He can go on ruling up there in Winterfell just as he pleases. He can even go on calling himself King in the North if he wants to, as long as he bends the knee and does me homage as the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. King is just a word, but fealty, service, loyalty… those things I require from him.”

Missandei glanced nervously at the queen. “And if Jon Snow will not give them to you, Your Grace?”

Dany arched an eyebrow. “I mean to rule as queen, and not of a broken realm. Three hundred years ago, a King in the North bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror, when he saw that there was no hope he could survive against a Targaryen and his dragon. That was a wise decision. Jon Snow must prove to have the same wisdom as the Stark lords before him. Once he supports me and surrenders Rhaegal, the realm will see an everlasting peace.”

Tyrion’s gaze met Varys, and their eyes held for a moment. Could there ever truly be peace as long as living dragons roamed Westeros?

Dressed in a black velvet doublet studded with small gold lions’ heads, the chain Daenerys had made for him, a loop of solid gold hands each clasping the wrist of the next, and a cloak of crimson silk cut to his height, Tyrion stood in front of the round golden window. His private audience chamber was not as large as the queen’s inside Maegor’s Holdfast nor anything near the vastness of the Red Keep’s throne room, but he liked its intimacy and the Myrish rugs and tapestries.

The door opened and his steward announced, “Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen.”

He also liked the sound of that, he thought as he hoisted himself into the high seat at the table in front of the window. In walked the queen just as he had settled himself.

“Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,” said the steward, bowing as she entered the chamber.

“Yes, thank you, steward,” Tyrion replied. The door then closed, leaving him alone with the queen. “So what brings you to the Tower of the Hand?”

Dany walked over to the table, sitting crosswise from him. “If the Hand won’t come to his queen, then the queen must go to her Hand.” He dropped his gaze from her face, looking down at the table. “You’re unhappy with me.”

He sighed. “I want _peace._ That’s all I’ve been trying to achieve since my fool nephew chopped off Ned Stark’s head.”

“And the realm will never see peace as long as there remains rivalry between myself and Jon Snow. Even if he would never seek to dethrone me, as you claim, who’s to say other lords of the realm wouldn’t conspire to remove me and place him on the throne?” She thought of the visions in the House of the Undying, of her frequent nightmares. “I cannot go through with a coronation and begin my rule amid contentious divisions within the Seven Kingdoms. Usurpers would only rise up against me. Whatever claim people might think the bastard has to the throne, it needs to be crushed. The claim to the throne must be mine, and mine alone.”

“Yes, you are right. Things with Jon Snow must be settled. But going north won’t end well. Just marching the Unsullied north of the Crownlands could be deemed an act of war.”

She shook her head. “The Unsullied aren’t marching anywhere. They are staying right here to guard King’s Landing and the Iron Throne. The City Watch has already been instructed to double their numbers while I am absent. The small council will ensure that my people are looked after until we return.”

His brows furrowed. _“We?”_

“Did you think I was going to Winterfell without you? I need you by my side. Varys can serve as Hand in your stead while you are gone. In fact, perhaps our absence might even go unnoticed by most.”

“How do you suppose we ride through one of the city’s gates to the kingsroad unnoticed?” he remarked. “And the journey to Winterfell will take the better part of a year, especially now that summer is over. Your people will surely realize you have gone from the capital and they will grow increasingly anxious the longer we wait for a coronation.”

She smirked. “We’re not going on horseback, and the journey won’t take nearly that long. We’ll depart King’s Landing for Dragonstone, and from there we’ll make our way north. Most of the city’s people will believe me to be taking up residence in my island castle, and won’t fret over my absence, for in their minds their queen won’t be far from them.”

Tyrion rubbed his hands over his eyes. “We can’t take a ship to Winterfell.” He sighed. “Well, we could, if we could ever manage to sail upriver past White Harbor. And even then, we’d have to anchor the ship and go some fifty miles north over land. Winter is here. The journey will be long and difficult.”

Grinning, Dany leaned over the table towards him. “Oh, we’re not taking a ship north either. And the journey won’t be that long. We’ll land in Winterfell long before any ravens could bring messages of our impending arrival.” She pressed her lips to his, kissing him tenderly.

After a few moments, Tyrion pulled back, breaking their kiss and staring at her, realization dawning on his face as the familiar screeching sound outside the tower announced Drogon and Viserion had returned to the city.

*****

As the King in the North and those leading the van came up over the crest of a snow-covered hill, an hour before sunset, Winterfell suddenly appeared in the distance along with the nearby winter town. Unable to stifle the flood of emotions welling up inside him, tears began to stream down Jon’s face. He lowered his head as his horse continued walking on the kingsroad, crying while his shoulders shook from the effort of holding back for so long. Lord Wyman Manderly reached over and patted the young king on the back. The ten-week journey from the Neck had been slow and difficult, full of freezing temperatures and scant meals, and twelve southron men had been lost. Yet no one turned around and retreated south to escape the harsh reality of the North. The rest continued following him, him and the green dragon.

The men often shot Jon strange looks, sometimes gazing between him and Rhaegal, whether flying overhead or sleeping curled up on the ground one hundred yards from their camp, melting the snow around it. Davos had informed him that men were starting to whisper about the prophecy concerning the last hero who would be reborn to save the world from darkness with a flaming sword and a dragon waking from stone. The red woman, Melisandre, had been following behind and tending to the sick and weary soldiers, preaching about the prince that was promised. While Jon had given Davos permission to seek her out in the camp and mete out justice for Princess Shireen, when he saw her feeding the men broths made from healing herbs and keeping the fires stoked, he had decided to hold back.

It wasn’t long before horns were heard in the distance, sounding out from the castle. Their van had been spotted. As the sun began to set, lights were then seen in the winter town and Winterfell just beyond, torches and fires having been lit. When they reached the town, the people gathered outside their snow-capped houses and inns to watch the King in the North travel through on the kingsroad. Smiling faces waved direwolf banners, bowing as he passed them by. He left behind instructions to find as many accommodations for his men as possible in the town. When every bed was full, they were to send the rest up to the castle.

Passing through the market square of the winter town, the king and his guards, Davos, House Stark’s lords bannermen, their trusted knights and cavalrymen, along with the band of wildlings, followed the kingsroad to Winterfell’s East Gate. The great main gates had a gatehouse made of two huge crenelated bulwarks which flanked the arched gate. With another sound of a horn, the gate rose and then Jon was crossing the drawbridge over the frozen moat. He was finally home.

The broad frame of Tormund Giantsbane, with his broad face and red beard as thick as a bush, greeted him inside the courtyard. Jon slid off his horse and walked towards him, the large man wrapping his arms around the king and lifting him off the ground and into a tight bear hug. The wildling put his mouth close to the king’s ear. “Did you know that a giant green rat with wings followed you all the way up to the castle?”

Jon laughed. “He’s been following us for near three months.”

At that moment Rhaegal appeared, circling the castle before choosing the broken tower as its perch. The tower had once been a watchtower, the tallest one in Winterfell. But at some point in the past over one hundred years ago, a lightning strike hit the tower, setting it on fire. The top third collapsed in on itself and no one had bothered to rebuild it. The watchtower became known as the broken tower, having stood empty and unused ever since.

“Lady Stark is not with you,” said Tormund, throwing an uneasy glance up at the dragon.

“No.”

The wildling man sighed. “So it’s true, then. She’s missing. Along with another sister of yours.”

His eyes widened. “Who said she was missing?”

“We’ve been receiving ravens from all over,” said Tormund. “Reports that Lady Stark had not traveled back north with you and your party, and that she hadn’t been seen anywhere in the Riverlands since you had left. They also mentioned another daughter of Lord Stark, also missing. The letters have expressed concern and offered any assistance with finding the Lady of Winterfell, or the _Princess of Winterfell_ depending on who wrote the letter, and bringing her back home safely.” He sighed. “But some letters… I think they were hoping for some kind of reward, or payment for doing such a fine deed for House Stark, like that Lord Baelish. And others, like the one from Queen Daenerys… I do not think she really hopes Lady Stark will be found.”

“I’m sure.” Jon thought for a moment, watching as Winterfell servants and guards tended to his men and their horses. “What else did _Queen_ Daenerys say?”

Tormund grinned. “Cersei Lannister is dead, and so she’s invited you back down south to King’s Landing for her coronation. She has even offered to postpone it until your arrival.”

The king shook his head. “How kind of her.”

“Smells like a trap.”

“Definitely,” Jon agreed.

The two friends then walked into the Great Keep, followed by Davos and the lords bannermen. Once the evening meal was finished, the king retreated to his council chambers and sat in front of the hearth with Tormund and Davos. The crackling fire filled the room with its warmth. Jon thought of Sansa and Arya, all that had transpired in the past few months, and all that lay ahead of him in the unknown future. While he felt beyond relieved to be back inside Winterfell’s walls, a dull ache had accompanied the feeling. He’d left the castle all those months ago as the newly-proclaimed King in the North, son of Lord Eddard Stark, brother to the Lady of Winterfell. He’d come back as a Targaryen bastard, son of a raper, who had no brothers, no sisters. And if his lords bannermen found out, if the people of the North learned who he really was… They could even suspect already, as Rhaegal was now perched atop an old watchtower. A dragon over Winterfell was news that would quickly spread far and wide.

“Your Grace…” said Tormund, grinning at him.

“Just call me Jon. I don’t feel like a Grace.”

The wildling let out a breathy laugh. “Who does?” He then looked over at the king. “I’m mighty surprised you didn’t steal yourself a woman down there in the Riverlands. I’d half expected you to come back home with a wife.”

Jon sighed.

“Have you lain with any woman since Ygritte? Are you certain the Night’s Watch didn’t end up cutting your member off? If a man doesn’t use his cock, it grows smaller every day, until one morning you wake up to piss and you can’t find it. My member’s got to be three times bigger than yours by now.”

Davos laughed.

The king sighed again. “The free folk breed like beasts.”

“Aye, and we thoroughly enjoy ourselves.” Tormund then blushed, and chewed on his lip, thinking. “When can we expect Lady Stark to return, and Brienne of Tarth with her?”

“Soon, I hope,” he replied. He gave his friend a suspicious glance, but the wildling would not meet his eyes. “But the winter storms will make travel long and arduous.” Fear then twisted his gut, and he fought hard to push it away.

Jon Snow stared into the fire, crackling and popping in the stone hearth. “Tormund,” he said quietly. “I once asked you to tell me what you knew about our enemy, but you refused to speak of them north of the Wall. We’re on the other side now. I want to know everything.”

The wildling ran his hand over his mouth and red beard. “They never come out by day, not when the sun’s shining. But that didn’t necessarily mean they went away. How can gods go away? How can white shadows disappear? Maybe you can’t see them with your eyes, but they’re always around.”

“Did they trouble you when you marched south to the Wall?” asked Davos.

“They never attacked us in large numbers,” he answered. “But they were there, in the night, eating away at our borders. Those who wandered off, or who fell behind, were lost. Every night, we’d set up rings of fire around our camps. They don’t like seem to like fire. But when the storms came, snow and freezing rain, it was awful hard to find dry wood or light our kindling. And some nights were so cold that our fires seemed to wither and die. And after nights like that, we’d always find a few dead in the morning. Unless _they_ found the bodies first.” He swallowed, his throat tightening. “Like that night we lost my boy, Torwynd, to the cold. But then he rose as one of the dead, a wight of the cold gods. And I had to…” His eyes became shiny and wet, and the light of the fire’s flames shone in them. “That was the hardest thing I ever had to do. He was no longer a man, but he’d been my son once, and I loved him.”

The king closed his eyes, hanging his head.

Silence filled the room, the only sound emanating from the hearth. Tormund sighed. “Men can fight the dead. They’re just corpses. Steel and fire will do for them. But when their masters come, when the white fog rises up… how do you cut down white mist? How do you fight white shadows with teeth? The air becomes so cold it hurts to breathe. What sword can burn away the cold?”

“We have dragonglass, Tormund. And Longclaw was forged in dragonflame, in the fires of old Valyria, and set with spells. I struck one of them down at Hardhome.”

“Aye, you did. You’ve got dragonglass and dragonsteel and a dragon now, besides,” the wildling replied. “Maybe that’ll be enough.”

Sam had called it dragonsteel, from the tale he’d found in an old book of the last hero defeating the Others eight thousand years ago. It was stronger and lighter, harder and sharper than any commonly forged steel. But the number of Valyrian steel swords left in Westeros was small, and there was no way in telling just how many White Walkers lived beyond the Wall, nor how many people would fall to their wights before they themselves appeared. Would there be enough people left alive to fight them? What if they got past the Wall, and Sansa and Arya had yet to return home, if they were out there somewhere…

“What if Sansa doesn’t make it back in time?” he asked, staring into the hearth, his voice just above a whisper.

Davos looked over at him. “Then… I suppose you’ll not only be the King in the North, you’ll become the Lord of Winterfell. I see no reason why your lords bannermen wouldn’t support you taking on the Stark name.”

He abruptly stood up from the chair, walking away from the hearth without a word, pulling on his fur-lined cloak. He didn't want to think about the possibility that he would never see Sansa again, or that Arya would never return. And even Bran. Where was Bran? Would he ever come home? Davos sighed, and Tormund turned as the king opened the council chambers door. “Try not to worry about Lady Sansa. She’s kissed by fire, remember. She’s lucky.”

Jon closed the door behind him as he stepped out into the hall. He soon found himself up on the battlements next to the East Gate, looking out over the kingsroad and the winter town in the short distance. The light seen from the town’s many windows, of torches lit or fires burning in their hearths, dotted the dark landscape. He then turned and saw Rhaegal perched atop the broken tower. Bran used to climb up there with corn in his pockets to feed the crows.

Walking past the Guards Hall and the empty First Keep, the oldest part of the castle and the very tower Bran had been pushed from, Jon approached the entrance to the broken tower. Inside the base of the tower there was a jumble of fallen stones and charred and rotten wooden beams. He then climbed the old, stone steps, spiraling up to the top of the tower, cautiously stepping over and around debris from the fire that had consumed the top levels over a century ago. The steps finally came to an end at a narrow, paneled oak door. It was as far as he could go using the stone staircase.

Pulling open the heavy door, creaking on its rusted hinges, he stepped out onto a ridge of the old bulwark as a gust of cold, night air hit him. He made his way carefully around the ruined parapet, the air becoming increasingly warmer, until he saw the massive green body of the dragon looming ahead. He found Rhaegal asleep, a green and bronze coil resting from the long and cold journey north. The dragon then raised his head from his tail, and stared at him with eyes of molten gold. His mouth opened, smoke rising from his nostrils, teeth gleaming like black knives.

Not knowing what he was doing, or why, Jon moved to stand closer, until he reached out and scratched the dragon under one eye, its jade-green wings unfolding for a moment, stirring the air. Its scales were hot to the touch, as if they were pieces of bronze armor that had been left out in the sun. Jon’s mouth then suddenly filled with the taste of blood, and he knew Ghost had killed. He rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand before spitting the taste out. The wildlings had called him a warg, but he didn’t know how to slip his skin and put on the skin of his direwolf. He only had dreams.

The wolf dreams had been growing stronger since he and Ghost had separated, and he was starting to experience them even when awake. He knew his direwolf was still with Nymeria, and they were somewhere in a forest. There were other wolves with them as well, but it wasn’t clear how many. He wondered if the direwolves had found themselves another pack, and hoped Ghost would return to him soon. He at least felt assured that his direwolf was alive and well, unlike when he’d parted from Ghost and climbed the Wall with the wildling raiders. He’d had no sense of his wolf then, not even in dreams, and it was a constant worry until they had been reunited.

Jon looked out over the castle, saw guards moving about the battlements, saw torches and hearth fires lighting the halls and rooms within the Great Keep, Guards Hall, and Guest House. And then the years sped back in time, and he was gazing over the Winterfell of his youth. He stood in the courtyard with Robb, clad in a quilted leather coat instead of iron mail and leather jerkin. Every morning they’d train together with swords made of wood, ever since they could walk. The brothers Snow and Stark, spinning and slashing and leaping, laughing and shouting, and sometimes crying if no one else was around. And when they fought with their wooden swords, they were transported to a dream world where they were no longer little boys, but mighty heroes.

 _“I'm Prince Aemon the Dragonknight,”_ he would call out as they sparred, and Robb would shout back, _“Then I'm Florian the Fool.”_ Or he would say, _“I'm Prince Daeron, the Young Dragon,”_ and Robb would reply, _“Well, I'm Ser Ryam Redwyne.”_

Then one morning he had been the first one to call it out. _“I'm Lord of Winterfell!”_ he’d cried, as he had done countless times before. But this time had been different. Robb then swung his wooden sword hard, striking a blow that had sent Jon to the ground, blood filling his mouth. He’d then answered, _“You can't be Lord of Winterfell. You're bastard-born. My lady mother says you can’t ever be the Lord of Winterfell.”_

Sighing, Jon thought he had forgotten all about that day. The memory left a bitter taste in his mouth. While Catelyn Stark had always made sure to treat him as though he was different and didn’t belong, that was the first time Robb had ever made reference to there being any real difference between them. The hurt still stung, years later. From then on, they each knew their place and what their futures had in store for them. Robb would inherit Winterfell, its lands and titles. Jon would get nothing handed to him, he would have to earn it. He had no place in Winterfell, and would need to make a life for himself elsewhere. But things hadn’t turned out as expected. Robb became king and battled his way to victory, earning honors and titles and the begrudging respect of even his enemies. Jon had gone from bastard to brother of the Night’s Watch to lord commander, and was now back in Winterfell and ruling the North as king.

He then found that he was now leaning back against the warmth of the dragon. If the bastard of Ned Stark could never have hoped to become Lord of Winterfell, then how could the bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen? What right did he have to Winterfell? Was Dragonstone where he truly belonged? Or King’s Landing? Perhaps once the North realized who he really was, if they hadn’t begun to arrive at their own conclusions already, then maybe he’d have no choice but to leave and head south. Maybe they’d want him and his dragon gone, not that he’d blame them. _His dragon?_ He turned and looked at Rhaegal’s face, a golden eye turned towards him, his head moving closer to nuzzle Jon. Did the dragon belong to him, or did he now belong to the dragon?

The honorable thing would be to confess to his lords bannermen the truth about himself, to reveal exactly who he was. But he didn’t want to ever leave the North. Winterfell was his home, no matter who his father was. He wanted it more than anything, and he would do anything to keep it, even if that meant deceiving those around him. He knew it wasn’t right, but now that he had Winterfell, nothing could ever make him give it up.

He stepped forward, moving away from Rhaegal. The faith and trust his lords bannermen had placed in him, the northmen who fought for him, their families who believed in him, and even the southron forces who had joined his cause, their faith and trust and belief depended on him being King in the North, the son of Ned Stark. If they were to defend the North against their enemies, that faith and trust, their loyalty to him, had to be protected at all costs. He should be presiding as Lord of Winterfell, addressing the needs of his people, he shouldn't be enjoying the warm companionship of a dragon. How could the faith of his men remain firm if his actions raised suspicions in their minds? With one last look at the green dragon, Jon left the broken tower and made his way to the Great Keep, the eyes of the Winterfell guards watching.

That night Jon dreamt of Sansa, and Winterfell. He gave her a flower from the glass gardens, he feasted with her in the Great Hall, and walked with her in the crypts among the stone kings on their thrones. They bathed together in the hot pools, and made love beneath the heart tree while the old gods watched over them. The dream was sweet, at first. But Robb’s voice had broken through, hard and angry. _“Winterfell doesn't belong to you. You are a Snow, not a Stark. Bastard, oathbreaker, turncloak.”_

Jon awoke in a cold sweat, guilt stabbing at him from every side.


	28. The Dance Of The Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'Dragons?' said her mother. 'Teora, don't be mad.'
> 
> 'I'm not. They're coming.'
> 
> 'How could you possibly know that?' her sister asked, with a note of scorn in her voice. 'One of your little dreams?'
> 
> Teora gave a tiny nod, chin trembling. 'They were dancing. In my dream. And everywhere the dragons danced the people died.'" ~ The Winds of Winter, Arianne I

Jon Snow was in the Great Keep’s council chambers, sitting in the table’s high seat surrounded by his lords bannermen, Davos, and Tormund. Detailed maps of the North were spread out on the table as well as charted lands north of the Wall and lands south of the Neck. They were in the middle of discussing the strengthening of their castles’ defenses, detailing the costs of all improvements. Customs officers in their House seats had been holding back silver from King’s Landing, halting the payment of their taxes to the Iron Throne since Jon had been crowned, and had started paying it over to the new King in the North.

“King Jon needs his own coinage as well,” said Lord Wyman Manderly. “And we can start minting in White Harbor, if it pleases the king. The North hasn’t had a warfleet for hundreds of years, not since Brandon the Burner put his father’s ships to the torch. Grant White Harbor the gold, Your Grace, and in one year we’ll build you enough ships to take both Dragonstone and King’s Landing as well as defeat those filthy squids in the Iron Islands once and for all.”

“The real battles will lie to the north, my lord,” Jon answered. “I’d rather not concern myself with Dragonstone and King’s Landing right now, nor with the Ironborn. We have no quarrel with them that would take priority over the real enemy. Send ravens to your own castles to improve the defenses on their walls. We should all be focusing on the use of fire to defend our peoples from the storm that’s coming. I’ll send word to the river lords as well. We can concentrate on ships later on, if necessary.”

Lord Cley Cerwyn leaned forward, speaking up. “That red priestess has taken to having men gather heaps of logs from the wolfswood. She says she’s going to have the men build large pyres in a circle around the winter town, and the castle as well.”

The king nodded. “Seems like a good idea. You should probably command the stewards at your own strongholds to do the same and the villages within the borders of your lands.” He paused, thinking. “But if you hear of any talk that she is going to erect a stake and hold a burning, you command the guards to seize her and bring her to me.”

The men at the table all bowed their heads. “Yes, Your Grace,” several voices intoned.

Midday came and went. After Jon sent word with a maidservant to the kitchens, they all moved to the solar that flanked the audience chamber and dined on roast capons, cheese, and brown oatbread with butter. Flagons of chilled autumn ale were passed up and down the long table. The king drank from a silver goblet with a lifelike head of a snarling direwolf raised on the side of the cup. His lord father had once drank from a cup just like it, and he remembered the last time he’d watched Ned Stark drink wine from such a goblet.

It had been during the summer, when Winterfell had hosted King Robert and his court. Lord and Lady Stark had sat up on the raised platform along with Robert and Cersei, Jaime and Tyrion beside her. The royal children, Joffrey and Myrcella and Tommen, had sat with the Stark children. Princess Myrcella had spent the entire evening staring at Robb with adoring eyes, like every other maiden in the Great Hall. Arya made queer faces across the table when her mother and father weren’t looking. Sansa had looked radiant that night, and he remembered her listening with rapt attention, eyes sparkling, while Robert’s harp player sang songs of knights and chivalry.

But Jon, the bastard son, hadn’t been permitted to sit at their table, and little Rickon, not understanding, had walked over to him several times during the welcoming feast to ask why his older brother was sitting so far away from them. Before he could explain, a maidservant would take Rickon by the hand and lead him back to his table at the front of the hall. Jon had sat down in a lower table among the guests, with Uncle Benjen and other members of Winterfell’s household, drinking more wine than he ever would have been allowed if his lord father’s watchful eye had been on him.

Seated to the king’s left, while tearing apart a bird with large fingers, Lord Wyman made an enquiry of him. “Your Grace, have you given any consideration to marriage? We don’t want to leave the security of the North on shaky ground, and it would be wise for you to wed and put a child in your wife’s belly as soon as possible. Don’t you all agree, my lords? A man does get lonely, especially a king.” He took a bite of his roast meat, and then smiled broadly. “House Manderly has a long history of joining with House Stark. Lady Jeyne Manderly wed Rickon Stark, the eldest son and heir of Lord Cregan Stark. Lady Myriame Manderly wed Lord Rodwell Stark, and she even reigned as Lady of Winterfell for a time after her lord husband died. Unfortunately, they’d had no children and the Stark line continued through Rodwell’s younger brother, Beron.”

Jon nodded silently, taking a sip of his ale.

Tossing the wing bones aside, the Lord of White Harbor reached for a leg. “Now, my two granddaughters, Wynafryd and Wylla, are the last of House Manderly’s line, and whichever honorable men take their hands in marriage would receive handsomely.” After he finished chewing, he wiped some grease off his chin with his sleeve. “When we ignored the request to help win back Winterfell from Ramsay Bolton, something I will regret to my dying day, oh how my Wylla raged. Even when I threatened to have her tongue cut out, she stood there and reminded me of the debt White Harbor owed to the Starks, a debt that can never be repaid. Not every man has what it takes to be Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, and not every woman can be as brave and strong my Wylla and her sister Wynafryd. They would each make an excellent wife to any noble and true man of the North.”

“I am sure they will both make very good matches, my lord, and that their marriages are in their best interests,” the king replied. “I will personally see to it.” A knot tied in his stomach, wondering if the lord would be as enthusiastic if he knew he was trying to form a marriage pact with a Targaryen bastard.

Lord Wyman smiled broadly again, and took a swig of his ale.

That night, Jon trudged through the courtyard until his arms and legs were caked with snow, and his feet had gone numb from the cold, and again climbed to the battlements of the inner wall. He stood one hundred feet above the ground, and the wind blew harder up on the battlements, stirring the snow. A storm had wracked the land around them for the past several days, with no signs of letting up, and the crenels had all filled with snow. Jon had to punch through with his gloved hands to make holes to look out beyond the castle’s walls. He couldn’t really see beyond the moat. The outer wall was just one large grey shadow. He was pleased to find catapults were now lined along the inner wall, just as he’d commissioned, and expected the same of the outer wall. He then went about checking in on the castle’s guards and their welfare as they remained stationed in their turrets, hovering near burning torches to keep warm.

North of the castle, Jon could just make out rings of fire floating in the distant dark, no doubt circling the wildling camps. After walking for some time, he eventually stood on the inner wall close to the East Gate. Beyond Winterfell, as far as the eye could see, the world was white. The kingsroad, fields, and wolfswood were covered by snow that continued to steadily fall from the sky. The winter town had been buried, yellow light from the town’s torches and hearth fires dotting the snow-covered landscape. Winter was the North’s best natural defense against southern enemies, preventing the march of enemy forces, and the castle remained strong, its defenses formidable, even with the moat frozen over.

He supposed enemies could cut the castle off from the outside world and starve out everyone inside if they decided to lay a siege, but Winterfell’s storerooms and cellar vaults were full to capacity. He’d been told the cellars within the winter town were also well-stocked. Before they’d left for the Twins all those months ago, a long supply train had come with Lord Manderly from White Harbor, Lady Barbrey Dustin had arrived with supplies from Barrowton, the Dreadfort of House Bolton had been emptied of its provisions, which were sent to Winterfell, and Lady Lyanna Mormont had a generous supply of food and fodder sent from Bear Island.

But the host that had returned with him from the Riverlands was large. With so many mouths to feed, their stores would not last the winter. The southron soldiers were cold and footsore from the difficult journey north, and at present in no condition to fight. They would need to regain strength before battle could be expected of them. It would not be easy with the snow storm that continued to plague the area.

He whistled into the night. The dragon spread its large green wings above the broken tower, and roared. It was not Rhaegal he wanted, but Ghost, yet the direwolf was nowhere to be seen. He was probably in some forest, leagues away from Winterfell, hunting in the night for some deer or elk. But perhaps that was for the best. There was nothing but death and danger that lay ahead of them in the North. He thought of Sansa and Arya, his brows furrowing with worry. He looked out at where the rutted kingsroad should be, hoping in vain to see some sign of them, yet the road had vanished under a blanket of white amidst the winter town.

 _Gods of the wood, just let me see them again,_ Jon prayed silently, staring out into the blustery darkness, his eyes pricking with hot tears. _Just let me hold them in my arms once more._  

*****

Sansa awoke from fitful dreams to a world of snow and silence. She glanced over to look at Arya and Brienne, but they’d already left their warm bedrolls behind and had departed the tent, leaving her to sleep away the morning. She shifted uncomfortably inside her own bedroll, her body still tense from the lingering sensations of her dreams. She felt tormented until she could no longer bear it, and slid a hand underneath her wool shift, past the roundness of her belly, down between her legs, whimpering when she felt how wet she was. Her breathing quickened as she moved her fingers back and forth between her lower lips, until she found her sweet spot and lingered there.

She closed her eyes and dreamed of him, Jon’s face swimming behind her lids, and remembered the feel of his arms, his hands, his lips, his cock. Her fingers moved lightly at first over the hardened nub, and then faster. It was no more than a few moments until her legs tightened, her thighs clamping down on her hand, and her breasts heaved as her body shuddered. She moaned with blessed relief, pressing her face down into the soft wool of her bed, quieting the sound as much as possible.

She soon crawled out of her bedroll and blankets of woolen cloaks, and pushed her way out of the tent, knocking aside the wall of snow that had covered their tent during the night. Taking a breath of icy morning air, she made out the shape of the other tents and saw what was left of their horses standing nearby. But everywhere she looked had been swallowed by snow, including the frozen tributary of the White Knife that lay just south of their camp and the southeastern stretch of the wolfswood to the west. Trees, land, and river had all been obscured by a vast, silent whiteness. And the snow was still falling.

Winterfell was three days away, but she had been only three days from home for the past seventeen. The snow storm had been merciless, slowing their travel north to a stagger. Some days they managed five miles, then three, then two, and then they were forced to stop altogether, the winter weather turning severe. Each day they had woken in hopes to see the sunshine, but had only been greeted with more unrelenting snowfall and freezing temperatures. And they were now without food, other than their declining horses, fish occasionally taken from the frozen river, and whatever paltry sustenance Arya, Gendry, and Theon managed to forage in the woods, cold and dead with the presence of winter.

Podrick, Bronn, and Jaime came out of their snow-covered tent just as Theon and Gendry emerged from their tent carrying logs they’d retrieved from the wolfswood the day before. A campfire was soon started and horsemeat was set over the flames to cook as Brienne and Arya joined them carrying some cold fish from the river. It wasn’t long before a hot blaze warmed them as they made to sit around the fire, after brushing off the wet logs they’d dragged from the woods to serve as benches.

Sansa sat down, somewhat awkwardly as her stomach had grown with her child within. She pulled the hood of her wool cloak over her head, shielding her face from the falling snow as she breakfasted.

Jaime knelt down in front of her once she’d finished eating. “Are you warm enough, my lady? Or should I say, my princess?”

“Yes, thank you, ser.” She sighed, clutching her fur-lined cloak tighter around her shoulders. “We need to make for Winterfell. I know that the snow will make the passage difficult, but we will starve if we stay here. And…” She had to get back to Jon. She had to go home. They wouldn’t survive much longer stuck in the storm. Their lives, her child’s life, depended on reaching Winterfell. Her hand then gently moved to rest upon her belly, a tender and protective gesture. “I know the kingsroad is buried. But if we just keep to the tree line of the wolfswood, we will reach Winterfell.”

“Travel will be hard and…” He glanced down at her growing belly, his hand going to gently grasp her arm. “Cold and exhausting. A trek through the snowstorm won’t be good for you or your child. We risk sickness, frostbite, and even worse.”

Hot tears pricked her eyes. “But we can’t just stay here! I need to go! I will take a horse and go on my own if I have to!”

Everyone else stopped talking at the sound of Sansa shouting. Arya sighed. “She’ll do it, too. She’ll run off and we’d just have to go after her. Let’s just break camp and see how far north we can get before the sun sets. Moving is at least better than doing nothing.” Weary and disheartened, the others nodded in agreement.

The three day journey to Winterfell turned into nine, and still they had not reached their destination. On the morning of the tenth day, they woke to find a horse had died in the night, leaving only one steed between the eight companions. After eating the horsemeat the gods had provided for sustenance, their packed tents and bedrolls were given to the brown gelding that remained to them, and they began to walk along the tree line of the wolfswood.

It was not yet noon when the snowfall lessened and the clouds started breaking up, finally allowing the party to see farther than a few feet in front of them. The tired and wet, cold and footsore travelers then caught sight of the castle to the east. Wisps of smoke rose into the grey sky from Winterfell’s chimneys. The snow-capped tops of the keeps and the towers stood still as they had for a thousand years.

Arya’s eyes widened. “We’re home,” she whispered, almost in disbelief. She hadn’t laid eyes on Winterfell since that day all those years ago when she’d left it behind with her father and Sansa when they made for King’s Landing. There had been a time when she thought she’d never see Winterfell again, she’d never see her family again. What was left of her family had returned to her, but still she hadn’t dared to dream of once again being inside the safe walls of her home. When she made out the Stark banner on the castle’s wall, a grey direwolf dancing in the wind, tears welled up her eyes.

Both crying, Sansa grabbed hold of her sister’s hand and they began running as fast as they could away from the wolfswood and through the deep snow covering the open fields leading up to the castle. Their companions followed behind them. The stronghold still lay some miles away, but they were determined to reach it as soon as possible. They were soon slowed to a walk, sides and legs aching. Eventually Sansa’s legs gave out and she stumbled, falling to the snowy ground. The stitch in her side had turned into a cramp and her legs were numb.

Jaime knelt down beside her. “Are you all right, princess?”

She nodded. “I’m fine,” she replied, trying to catch her breath. She could barely get the words out. “Let’s keep going.”

Theon was then by her side, kneeling down. “No, Sansa. Not yet. We can wait a bit.”

“I can’t,” she whispered raggedly, her chest burning as she tried to stand up. “I need to get to Jon. I need Jon.” But in her exhaustion, her legs only gave out again and she fell back down to the snow.

“I’m sorry, but you need to rest for a little while,” said Arya, brows creasing with worry. “The castle isn’t going anywhere.”

Brienne nodded. “None of us have had much to eat over the past few days, Lady Stark, and we are all tired. We can stop for a brief rest.”

But Sansa only shook her head, her eyes pricking with hot tears. She was so close to him, and felt desperate. They couldn’t stop now. They’d come so far. “I need to see Jon,” she whimpered tearfully.

At that moment a roar was heard in the distance. With feelings of dread, they all looked to the south and saw the distant approach of two dragons, only small black outlines against the grey sky, but moving fast toward Winterfell. Panicked, Jaime lifted Sansa in his arms and began carrying her to the castle through the blustery, cold wind and swirls of blowing snow. They were soon approaching the massive granite outer wall, eighty feet high, and the Hunter’s Gate which opened to a drawbridge across the moat that connected to the inner granite wall, one hundred feet high. Guard turrets flanked either side of the gate on the outer wall.

Men clad in leather jerkins and iron helms then appeared at the turrets, longbows and arrows pointing at the party approaching the gate. A muffled voice called out a challenge. “Who goes there? Halt!”

The knight stopped. “Ser Jaime Lannister, and if we halt too long, we’ll freeze in place!” he called out as their companions came up behind. “I have the daughters of Lord Eddard Stark, sisters of Jon Snow, the King in the North! I bring Sansa Stark, Princess of Winterfell!”

She lowered her hood, the cold wind blowing harshly against her face, freeing her long red braid. Immediately a horn sounded and the outer gate began to rise.

*****

Jon walked along the bridge from the Great Keep to the armory, a hundred things on his mind. Even Winterfell itself was just as crowded as his thoughts. The courtyard was alive with the sounds of barking dogs, rumbling wagons, and the ringing of swords and axes. He glanced up at the top of the broken tower. The green dragon still perched there, and had actually begun to make a lair. With flame and claws, Rhaegal had dug himself a hole in the scorched and tumbledown tower, a hole big enough to sleep in that kept him out of the cold winter wind.

At first, Winterfell’s inhabitants were fearful of him, and whenever Rhaegal appeared, leaping into the sky from the broken tower, many screams could be heard. But the dragon would simply fly off to the nearby wolfswood to hunt, often bringing back a charred deer or boar carcass to feed on inside his lair. Soon the people inside the castle and winter town came to the realization that the dragon was no threat to them, at least at present, and the gasps or screams gradually lessened whenever he appeared.

As the king made his way across the bridge to the armory, a voice called out. “Your Grace!”

He turned to look down into the courtyard, and saw one of the guards standing near the East Gate. “Yes, Errold?”

“The red woman, uh… the Lady Melisandre is at the main gate and wishes to speak with you, Your Grace. She says it’s a matter of importance.”

“Let her in,” he replied. “I will be down in a few moments.”

He then entered the second floor of the armory, before walking down a flight of wooden stairs to the ground level. The armorers were busy at their forge, hammers ringing as sweat dripped from their brows. He looked over their work and departed the armory, stepping out into the courtyard. The priestess stood there in her dark red cloak and ruby necklace, white snowflakes falling upon her hair and shoulders. He walked across the snow-covered ground towards her.

She gave a slight bow of her head. “Your Grace.”

“You wanted to speak with me.” He glanced around in search of Davos, but his friend couldn’t be seen.

“Yes, Jon Snow. I have seen something in the flames that greatly concerns you.”

 _Your tears are flame, and her body is ash._ He hung his head, sighing. He then looked up at her. “So what is it?”

“The true enemy grows stronger beyond the Wall, and he is moving towards it. Death is his domain, and the dead are his soldiers. The flames crackled softly and they whispered your name. I saw the face of the enemy, wooden, corpse white, and eyes like blue ice. You held a sword in your hand, the blade as pale as milkglass, and burned hot, becoming flame.”

He looked down at the hilt of Longclaw at his hip, made of pale white stone and carved in the shape of a wolf’s head.

She stepped closer. “That was not the sword I saw.”

“Well, it’s the only one I’ve got.” His guts twisted. “What of my sisters?”

The red woman only shook her head.

“But… what you saw before, when we were at the Twins, has that changed?” he asked.

She looked at him with sympathy. “I’m afraid the vision remains the same. But my power is limited here. I would be of more help to you, and your sister, if…”

The king took a step forward. “What? What do you need?”

“Burn the godswood,” she said.

He stared at her agape. “The godswood? The heart tree is where we say our prayers and swear our vows.”

Melisandre moved closer. “Jon.” She still stepped closer until he could feel the warmth of her breath. “R’hllor is the only true god. Praying to a tree is just as powerful as praying to your shoes. Open your heart to the Lord of Light and let Him in. He will bless you if you turn away from your false gods. Burn the weirwood. It is the only way I can help save your sister.”

 _You can’t be Lord of Winterfell, you’re bastard-born,_ he again heard Robb’s voice say. And the voices of the Kings of Winter on their granite thrones in the crypts, saying, _You do not belong here. This is not your place. Get out._ He saw Catelyn Stark, with her deep blue eyes and hard cold mouth. Her face was hard as iron, staring at him as she used to when he was younger, whenever he had beaten Robb at swords or sums or even silly children’s games. _Why are you here?_ her silent looks always seemed to say. _You don’t belong here. This is not your place. Go away._ But Jon closed his eyes and saw the heart tree, with its white branches and red leaves and the solemn face carved into the wood, and he suddenly heard the voice of his lord father. _You are my blood, and that is all you need to know._

“Lord Eddard always used to say the weirwood is the heart of Winterfell,” he finally replied. “But you’re asking me to tear the heart tree up by its ancient roots and feed it to your wicked fire god. Children aren’t enough? He wants trees as well? I have no right to Winterfell. And I have no right to uproot and burn its weirwood. Winterfell belongs to the old gods. And if you go _anywhere_ near the godswood, I will have you beheaded for treason, and for the murder of innocents.”

“Unbelievers never listen until it is too late, Jon Snow. When the body of your sister is ash and your tears are flame, you will wish with all your heart that you had accepted the Lord of Light and burned the weirwood when you had the chance.”

The king watched Melisandre turn and walk away toward the main gate that opened up to the kingsroad and the winter town’s market square. He suddenly heard shouting up on the southern wall’s battlements, and then the blast of horns. He hurriedly walked across the courtyard until he came into view of the guards standing over the south gate. One of them turned and saw the king.

“Your Grace!” he shouted down into the courtyard. “Two dragons! Two dragons in the distance are making for Winterfell!”

 _Gods be damned,_ he thought, closing his eyes and heaving a sigh. He could not believe it. But on second thought, he could.

But then another horn sounded to herald the arrival of yet another person or persons approaching the castle. It had sounded from the western wall, at the Hunter’s Gate. Who would be coming to the castle from the wolfswood? Perhaps a party from House Glover’s seat at Deepwood Motte, or wildlings had come down to Winterfell from their camps. But the guards started shouting even louder at the western wall, over the men still gathering at the southern battlements to watch the dragons in the sky.

“Lady Stark!”

“Lady Sansa!”

Jon gasped, and broke into a run. He raced to the western wall, dashing through small drifts of snow that had piled in the courtyard, running past the stables and kitchens, the Library Tower and the kennels. By the time he caught sight of the gate, he was wide-eyed and panting. The world seemed to blur and he realized he was crying. And then, through the tears, he saw her. She was being carried through the arched postern of the inner wall’s gate, in the arms of Jaime Lannister. A knot of fear tied tight in his stomach as he rushed forward. Why was she being carried? What had happened?

Sansa turned her head, relief flooding her insides having arrived at Winterfell, and she saw him quickly walking towards her. His cheeks had flushed pink and his eyes were wet. Her heart swelled, full to bursting, and removing her arms from around the knight’s shoulders, she reached for him. Jon then took Sansa from Jaime’s arms, holding her in his own. She buried her face in his neck, crying tears of relief. For a brief moment, his eyes met Jaime Lannister’s and held, before Jon turned away and began carrying her to the Great Keep.

Jaime stared after them. The look in the young king’s eyes had seemed almost maddeningly possessive, dangerous even, when he’d taken his sister from him. He continued to watch as Sansa kept her face to Jon Snow’s neck, holding onto him tight, as if the strongest bar of iron could not have pried her from his arms. An indescribable sinking feeling welled up inside. He turned to Brienne, who had come up to stand beside him. Somewhere behind them, he heard Bronn and Podrick arriving through the gate with Arya Stark and her two friends.

“Something tells me Petyr Baelish isn’t the father of her child,” he said to her in a low voice.

But Brienne merely stared after the king and his sister, and said nothing. She turned to the guards approaching them, and then walked over to her traveling companions. “May I present Arya Stark of Winterfell, youngest daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, safely returned home at last.”

The eyes of the men bulged, and then they started grinning broadly when they took in her boy’s clothing and the sword that hung from her hip. “That’s her, all right,” one of them laughed.

Joyful shouts of “Lady Arya!” filled the courtyard as more of the castle’s household emerged, stable boys and maidservants alike, rushing to greet the long lost daughter of Winterfell. She was then suddenly surrounded by hands, arms, and smiling faces. Tears fell from Arya’s eyes and laughter fell from her lips as she was lifted into the air and hugged by too many people to count.

As Jon walked towards the Great Keep, he looked back into the courtyard and saw Arya smiling and laughing. But then shouts of “dragons!” broke through the happy celebrations. He hurried inside and made for his council chambers on the ground floor. Once inside, they were greeted by the warmth of the fire crackling in the stone hearth. He set a tearful Sansa on her feet and closed the double oak doors, before turning back to face her.

She stood against the wall, her hooded grey-blue cloak hung in front of her, dripping wet from the melting snow. He rushed forward, his lips sealing hard and fast over hers before she could even finish saying his name. But he quickly pulled away. “Why did you run away, Sansa? Why?” he demanded as tears welled up in his brown eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she cried. “I won’t ever leave you again. I promise.”

His lips then devoured hers with abandon, not holding back. Their blood heated and blazed, his desire threatening to consume him even as continued shouts of “dragons” now rang inside the Great Keep’s walls. He pressed his body to hers, but was immediately greeted with something wholly unfamiliar.

He broke the kiss and took a step back. He stared at her, at her hand now moving to caress her swollen belly. His throat tightened, and he choked on his words. His guts twisted so fiercely he thought he might be sick. Tears rolled down her cheeks as he helplessly shook his head.

“Jon,” she whispered tearfully.

“But it’s been near five months since…”

She nodded, swallowing. Her heart pounded in her chest, her insides fluttered. “A baby, Jon…”

 _I will never father a bastard. Never!_ He had spat the words out as if they were poison for all to hear. _I will not father a bastard. I will not._ How many times had he said those words to himself, to others?

Sansa took a deep breath. “At Greywater Watch, Howland Reed told us that…”

He looked up. “I know. I know who I am.” Tears pricked his eyes again. “And they are all about to find out now that Daenerys is here. She knows who I am. They will strip my title from me, and I will be banished from Winterfell. I have no right to be here. They will all abandon me,” he choked, his voice thick with emotion.

Her face crumpled in empathy, and moved towards him, taking his hand. “But I won’t. And your men won’t either,” she said confidently. “Cersei Lannister once told me that the only way to keep your people loyal is to make certain that they fear you more than they fear the enemy.” She shook her head, tears escaping and rolling down her cheeks. “She was wrong. Your men will be loyal to you because they love you. They won’t care what your name is. You need to place the same trust in them that they have in you.”

Jon sighed, and squeezed her hand. “Tyrion once told me that most men would rather deny a hard truth than face it. I am done with denials. I am who I am. I’m a bastard and an oathbreaker, motherless, fatherless. And if revealing the truth also means I will be friendless and condemned to be an outsider, silently dwelling in the shadows and forever barred from speaking my own name… Wherever I might go in the Seven Kingdoms, I would need to live a lie and hide who I am, lest every man I come across raises his hand to strike me down.”

“You will never be friendless,” whispered Sansa. “Wherever you go, you will have me.” She sighed. “But everything will work out, Jon. You’ll see. Lord Reed gave me…”

Someone was then pounding on the door. “Go away!” the king shouted.

“But… Your Grace, Queen Daenerys is approaching the castle. She is not far from the southern walls now, and it appears that she is accompanied by the dwarf, Tyrion Lannister. And… she has two dragons, Your Grace.”

“Seven hells,” he groaned, covering his face in his hand. The fear was plain in his guard’s voice. “Yes, Bill. Tell Tormund and Davos to meet me at the south gate. I will be out in a moment.”

Jon then wiped his tear-stained face and gripped Sansa gently by the arms. “I am going to deal with Daenerys, and then we will talk about all that Howland Reed told you. But first, I need to address the situation with the dragon queen. Nothing can be done until this matter with her is finished.”

She nodded, and taking her by the hand, he led her out of the Great Keep and into the castle’s courtyard.

*****

Holding tight onto the back of the enormous black creature beneath them, Daenerys and Tyrion landed a hundred yards from Winterfell’s walls. The sun was shining in the noonday sky. The quaint winter town lay off to the northeast, in front of the castle’s east wall. They slid off Drogon’s back as Viserion landed on the soft ground nearby. His eyes were two pools of molten gold that matched the gold of his horns and the scales that ran down his back, sparkling against the melting snow underneath him.

Tyrion steadied himself, and took a deep breath. “My queen, if I don’t have to ride him again for some time, I will not mind.”

“Only for the return home,” she said. “Hopefully that will be sooner rather than later.”

Dany smirked at him as she smoothed out her long-sleeved gown made of white wool with a golden belt, and a cloak of heavy white wool with a white satin border draped over her shoulders. She then trudged through the snow in her black leather boots toward the castle, her Hand following her, struggling as he pushed his way through the snow.

As she approached the South Gate, the guards in the gatehouse called out.

“Halt! Who goes there?”

“You know who I am,” she said, her expression and voice coy yet stern. “But if you wish for a formal announcement, then so be it. I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the Unburnt, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons.”

There was a long pause as Jon looked up at the southern wall, one hundred feet above where Daenerys stood on the other side. He then saw the familiar broad face and thick red beard of his wildling friend standing up on the battlements. The broad face grinned at him, before turning and moving closer to stand in front of the crenels, towering over their tops. Arya then ran up to her sister and brother, and Jon pulled her into a tight hug. “Thank you,” he whispered, before pulling back and looking at her. She smiled, tears pricking her eyes as she nodded, and then gave him another hug.

“Well, I am Tormund Giantsbane,” the wildling finally called down to the dragon queen below, his voice booming loud for all to hear. “And also Tormund Thunderfist, Tall-talker, Horn-blower, Breaker of Ice, Husband to Bears, the Mead-king of Ruddy Hall, Speaker to Gods, Father of Hosts, and Guardian of Winterfell. Why have you come here unannounced and uninvited, Daenerys Stormborn? And with dragons, no less? What is the meaning of this? I’ve never fucked a dragon, but if it’s anything like that bear o’ mine, I’ll have a bloody good time of it.”

Jon smiled, shaking his head, and fought back a laugh. The guards around them sniggered. He then glanced at Sansa. Her brows were creased with worry, and he tried to give her a look of reassurance as he squeezed her hand.

Dany looked down at Tyrion. “Who is this Tormund Giantsbane?”

“A wildling raider from beyond the Wall,” he answered. “He and his wilding bands came south after they made Jon Snow their king.”

She felt anger flood her insides. Who hadn’t made the bastard their damned king? “It is _my dragon_ that has compelled me to travel all this way to Winterfell,” she called back to the wildling on the battlements. “The green dragon belongs _to me._ I wish to treat with Jon Snow.”

Tormund scoffed. “Any why should I send my king out to you and your dragons? Do you think I have the brains of a crow?”

“You may take Tyrion Lannister in exchange until the treat is over,” she replied.

“What?” her Hand said, turning to look up at her with wide eyes.

She pursed her lips. “Do you believe that Jon Snow would ever allow you to be harmed?”

He sighed. “Well, no… But I cannot speak for the rest of the men inside the castle should _you_ harm _him._ ”

Tormund laughed. “Is that the name of the dwarf you brought with you? You want to exchange a dwarf for a king? You are mad.”

“He is just as important to me as your king is to you!” Dany shouted back, seething at the blatant defiance. “He is the Hand of the Queen, the second-most powerful person in the realm. And I will hand him over in good faith, with every intention of retrieving him back from you once I finish speaking with Jon Snow.”

“They are never going to go for this,” Tyrion whispered.

She smiled. “No one refuses someone with the power of dragonfire, if they know what is good for them.”

The king closed his eyes, shaking his head. “It is all right, Tormund. Open the gate!” he called out to the guards.

“Jon, no.” Sansa looked at him earnestly. “Do not go out there.”

“There is something you need to know about her,” said her sister. “She is not the rightful queen. Lord Reed told us that you…”

He turned, placing a hand on both their shoulders. “This needs to happen, between her and I. We can talk about Howland Reed later.”

Arya chewed her lip. “You’re not scared to go out there? She has dragons.”

She looked so worried for him, and there was such affection in her eyes that it almost broke his heart. She knew the truth about him. She knew that he was not truly her brother, but a Targaryen bastard born of rape, and yet she still loved him. She still looked upon him the same as she ever had. His heart swelled with pride and affection for his little sister. “It is _her_ who is scared of _me_ ,” he said, gently patting her cheek. “Just you remember that.”

He then turned to Sansa. The snowflakes were melting on her cheeks, flushed and red, and her blue eyes sparkled. The snow had begun to collect around her shoulders and also along her brow where it met the grey-blue hood of her cloak. It made her look as though she wore an icy crown. He squeezed her hand again. “Winter’s queen.” He smiled, gazing at her with adoration in his eyes. “Someday, when this is all over, I will wed you in the godswood, beneath the weirwood tree, and then you will be my queen as well.”

Her throat tightened, and tears filled her eyes as sadness clutched at her heart. Times of war were full of promises made, but rarely kept. “Someday,” she whispered. “But I will always be yours, whether you are a king or not.”

Swallowing, he could only manage a small smile in reply. He didn't know when this would all be over, whether he would still be accepted as King in the North or cast out and despised, whether he would be alive or dead when all was finished, but he meant what he'd said. Suddenly he pulled Sansa into his arms, no longer caring about the eyes of others, and kissed her with such intense passion that she could only cling helplessly against him, a storm surge of love and desire sweeping over her. The hood of her cloak fell, snowflakes scattering to the wind, and her long red braid fell down her back. Jon moved his hand between them, tenderly caressing her swollen belly. She broke the kiss, pressing her forehead to his. “I think it is a boy,” she whispered. His heart swelled, and the thought of a son filled him with a sense of love and sorrow too deep for words.

Everyone standing in the courtyard stared agape, in utter shock, and some faces even registered revulsion, while Arya simply stared down at her shoes, her face reddening with embarrassment. House Stark’s lords bannermen blinked, mouths hanging open, brows furrowing in confusion as they looked at one another. Davos and Tormund and many of the guards stared down from atop the battlements, equally confused at the sight.

Jon then walked away from Sansa and made for the arched postern in the southern wall. The drawbridge lowered across the frozen moat as the outer gate rose, revealing the world of white beyond the castle. He walked over the bridge as Tyrion Lannister approached the gate. When their paths met, they stopped and looked at one another.

“Do you remember what you once said to me, Lord Tyrion, all those years ago when you first came to Winterfell?” Jon asked. “You gave me some advice.”

The dwarf smiled. _Let me give you some advice, bastard. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor and it can never be used to hurt you._ “Yes, Jon, I remember.”

He paused, nodding. “I am finally taking your advice. I know who and what I am. And so does your queen, or why else would you both have come all this way? Over a dragon who left her of its own free will? I think not. Your brother Jaime is inside. He will take good care of you, so do not be frightened to enter the castle.” Jon then continued walking across the frozen moat.

Tyrion walked into Winterfell’s courtyard just as people were rushing to get to the top of the walls to stand among the battlements and watch what was about to happen on the other side, including Arya and House Stark’s lords bannermen.

Jaime walked forward to greet him. “Well, hello. How nice of you to join me here.”

He smirked. “You’re looking rather haggard, brother.”

“I only just arrived myself,” the knight replied. “We traveled for months.”

“You came on horseback? All the way from the Riverlands?” Tyrion’s eyes widened.

Jaime shrugged. “Also on foot, when the horses started failing. Not all of us have dragons to ride.”

The dwarf looked skyward, eyes roaming the area above them. “Speaking of dragons, where is that blasted green one? That thing has cost me more trouble than you would believe, both in Meereen and now in Westeros.”

“I haven’t laid eyes on it,” his brother replied.

Jaime and Tyrion then made to climb up to the castle's inner wall along with Bronn, Podrick, and Gendry. Theon and Brienne remained in the courtyard with Sansa, who stood staring at the open gates, heart pounding, palms sweating, stomach twisting. _“Love is poison,”_ Cersei had said to her once. _“A sweet poison, but it will kill you all the same.”_ If Jon died, she wondered if she would have the strength to live. Just the thought filled her with despair.

*****

Jon passed through the outer wall and stepped into the snowy field. He came to a stop several feet from Daenerys, about half way between where she stood and the South Gate. Both her dragons prowled behind her, the black beast with streaks of vivid scarlet through its scales and wings was five times bigger than the cream and gold one. The smoke from their nostrils rose into the air, melting the snowflakes that came drifting down from the sky.

“Hello, Jon,” Dany greeted. She looked over his black boots and dark grey woolens, the black fur-lined cloak hanging over the brown leather jerkin. A longsword with a hilt made of pale white stone was belted to his hip.

Pursing his lips, he nodded. “Queen. You wanted to treat with me. Well, here I am.”

Nerves fluttered inside her stomach. “I have come for my dragon. You had no right to take him.”

He looked at her in disbelief. “Take him? Do you think I threw a net over him and dragged him all the way to Winterfell? What is the real reason you are here?”

She chewed her tongue, trying to stem the anger that was starting to boil in the pit of her stomach. “I cannot rule a broken realm. The Seven Kingdoms must all unite under one throne, one queen, or there will never be peace.”

“Oh, peace,” replied Jon, lifting his brows. “Peace is the reason you have come. Well, things are peaceful here, for now. I have no quarrel with you. What happened at the Twins… let’s just forget all about it. I will stay up here in the North, you will return to King’s Landing, and I do not see us ever needing to see each other again. Peace we will have.”

“I am the Queen of Westeros.” Her voice was hard, and her eyes blazed. “I sent you an invitation to my coronation, which was ignored. The Great Houses of the other kingdoms accepted and intend to be there. I have received letters swearing their fealty and service to the Iron Throne, and in support of my rule. I have received nothing but cold silence from the North. The Crown has not received the taxes it is owed from House Stark as well as the lesser houses sworn to your feudal lordship. The same is true of the noble houses in the Riverlands. Word from the Westerlands merely states that the Lord of Casterly Rock is away and so they are unable to give the throne a proper response. This defiance cannot go unchecked.”

Jon gazed past her at the prowling dragons, melting the snow wherever they stepped. He could feel the eyes of everyone on Winterfell’s walls behind him, and knew his lords bannermen were there, not to mention the soldiers listening inside and watching from the winter town.

Dany’s eyes glinted. “I do not care whatever claim the smallfolk think you might have, or whatever allegiance these lesser lords have sworn to you. I will not tolerate usurpers, nor even the whispers of those who would rather seat another on the Iron Throne. You may be the son of my brother, Prince Rhaegar, but I am the true heir to the throne. And you will prove that before the entire realm by showing me obeisance and paying me homage as your queen and sovereign. Bend the knee, and all is forgiven.”

Up on the battlements, those gathered gasped and looked at each other in confusion. Whispers of “Rhaegar” went up and down the walls. The lords bannermen of House Stark gazed down in shock, and then turned to look at one another, shaking their heads. They all then turned their gaze on Arya, who stood up on the inner wall with them. She nodded. “It's true, what the dragon queen said. Jon is not the son of my father. He is Aunt Lyanna’s son with Rhaegar Targaryen. Lord Howland Reed confirmed it. He was there with Father when they found Lyanna in Dorne.” 

She wanted to explain everything, to tell them the whole truth about Rhaegar and Lyanna, about Jon and Daenerys, but she remembered her promise to Sansa not to speak of it until they had told their brother. The lords bannermen simply stared at her, eyes wide and lips parted. 

Jon kept his eyes on Daenerys, staring just as hard, and when he began speaking, his voice was hard, forceful and determined. “You want to treat? Then let us treat. You will renounce all claims to dominion over the North. From now on, we are no part of your realm, but a free and independent kingdom, as of the old days before Aegon the Conqueror arrived in Westeros. Our domain shall include all the Stark lands north of the Neck as well as the Riverlands watered by the Trident and its vassal streams. Our boundaries shall be the Golden Tooth of the Lannister west, the Vale’s Mountains of the Moon to the east, and Sow’s Horn castle in the Crownlands to the south.”

“THE KING IN THE NORTH!” boomed Lord Wyman Manderly, throwing a large fist into the air as he shouted from up on the battlements. “King Jon! The King in the North! King Jon! The King in the North!”

From somewhere along the walls, a shout of “King of the Trident!” was heard.

“You can go ahead and include the Westerlands too, Your Grace,” shouted Jaime Lannister, smirking. “The Lord of Casterly Rock grants you dominion over our lands. We'll start sending our taxes to Winterfell immediately.”

Tyrion groaned in frustration. “Are you doing this just to vex me?” But his brother only grinned. He stepped closer to the crenel in front of him. “Daenerys, just accept his terms and return to your throne!” her Hand advised. The situation was quickly escalating, and he feared there was nothing he could do from atop the battlements.

“On a first name basis with the queen, are we?” said Jaime, arching his eyebrow down at his younger brother.

He pursed his lips, but didn’t reply.

Dawning realization came over his face, and he stared down in shock and disbelief. “Are you _fucking_ her?” When his brother again didn’t reply, he only shook his head. “Seven hells.”

“You know, I’m almost sorry that I killed our father,” Tyrion finally said, his voice turning wistful. “I would have thoroughly enjoyed seeing Lord Tywin’s face when he saw a Targaryen queen ruling Westeros with dragons, backed by a scheming eunuch and a dwarf.” He let out a breathy laugh, but then sighed. “Of course, if she completely fucks it all up, and the chances of that happening are not in her favor, then he’d be the first one to rub it in my face. So yes, I suppose I’m not sorry I killed him at all.”

Jaime heaved an exasperated sigh, shaking his head.

Dany’s eyes had gone wide, her guts twisting into knots.

Bolstered by the sound of the old knight from White Harbor’s voice, Jon continued. “We have drawn up a map showing the borders of our lands, and a copy of it will be given to your Hand, Lord Tyrion. You shall no longer make any claims to taxes, incomes, nor service from my people, and shall free my lords and knights from all past oaths of fealty, vows, debts, and obligations owed to the Iron Throne.” He smirked at her stunned expression. “In return, you may have Rhaegal back. He is up in the broken tower. One of my men can escort you up to see him. You are free to take him. I will not stop you, nor will any of my men. If you wish, we will even construct a large metal net so that you can drag him back to King’s Landing with you.”

Her face darkened, anger flooding her stomach like molten gold.

“Those are my terms. If you meet them, I will give you lasting peace between the North and your Iron Throne. If not…” He whistled, and high above the castle at the top of the broken tower, the green dragon stirred. Rhaegal crawled out of his scorched lair, spreading his large green wings in the air above the ruined tower. Jon fixed a hard stare on Daenerys. “Then we will dance.”

“King Jon!” the Lord of White Harbor shouted again, and then other voices along the castle's walls took up the loud cry. The rest of the lords bannermen, soldiers, guards, servants, wildings and northmen and southron alike, all raised their voices into the air. And amid the clamor, Arya’s voice seemed loudest of all. “King Jon, King in the North!” The green dragon threw back his head and roared, flames bursting into the snowy sky.

Her violet-blue eyes blazed anger. “Then we shall dance.”

“Daenerys, don’t do this!” Tyrion called down to her from the battlements. But she ignored his pleas and turned to walk towards Drogon.

Standing in the courtyard, Sansa’s heart started beating so fiercely beneath her ribs, she thought it was going to burst from her chest. “No,” she whispered helplessly.

Jon whistled again, and the green dragon flew from the broken tower, soaring into the air before quickly landing in the snowy ground outside the castle’s walls with a great thud, the ground shaking with the impact. Drogon and Viserion snarled at him as he hissed. The king bid Rhaegal to bend his neck, the hairs on the back of his own neck prickling, and the dragon obeyed. He then climbed hesitantly onto his back, while the young queen vaulted lightly onto Drogon’s neck. Rhaegal hissed again, filling the air with yellow flame, Viserion and Drogon answering with a roar. As one, the three dragons leapt into the sky.

Rhaegal took the king up swiftly. The air was thick with heat and wet with melting snow. Jon couldn’t see, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. The green wings cracked like thunder as they moved through the sky. Dizzy, Jon closed his eyes. When he finally opened them, he glimpsed Winterfell beneath him through a haze of tears and snow. He clutched the dragon’s spiny scales until they disappeared into a bank of grey clouds.

Drogon, much the larger than the other two dragons, was also slower, made laborious by his very size, and ascended more gradually, in ever widening circles that took him and Daenerys out over the lands around Winterfell. The dragon circled, dark against the grey sky, all black scales with eyes and horns and spinal scales the color of scarlet. His wings spanned well over twenty feet from tip to tip, and were black as jet. Up and up Dany soared, searching for Rhaegal as the inhabitants of Winterfell watched from the castle below, gasping and shouting.

The attack came sudden as a lightning bolt. Rhaegal dove down upon Drogon with a piercing shriek that was heard a dozen miles away, cloaked by the thick clouds and the glare of the sun. The green dragon slammed into the larger one with terrible force, and it was all Jon could do to hold on. The dragons’ roars echoed across the snowy landscape below as the two grappled and tore at one another, dark against a light grey sky. So bright did their flames burn that smallfolk in the winter town and the wildlings in their camps below thought the clouds themselves were on fire. Locked together, the dragons grappled violently through the air, a thousand feet above Winterfell, as balls of fire burst bright in the sky. Rhaegal’s jaws then closed about Drogon’s neck, his black teeth sinking deep into the flesh of the larger dragon. Rhaegal’s claws raked the black dragon’s belly and ripped a wing. Dany screamed. Viserion. Where was Viserion? Jon was thinking the same thing. Against both Drogon and Viserion, his death was no doubt certain.

Then there was suddenly an answering roar. The riders looked down at the land below, eyes widening as the white dragon was still circling the castle, sending its flames among the walls and towers. A battle had ensued, and they thought they saw longbows loosing arrows into the air at the white-and-gold dragon. Dany screamed again in frustration, and Drogon, the larger and stronger of the two in the sky, finally freed himself from Rhaegal’s teeth and claws. But once again, the green dragon shot up into the clouds, cloaking itself from view.

Jon wanted to draw both of Daenerys’ dragons away from the castle and shouted, “North! Go!” Rhaegal obeyed, flying with tremendous speed. Dipping below the clouds, Dany finally caught sight of them, and commanded Drogon to go after the other dragon and his rider. The black dragon chased the green, racing north through the sky. Rhaegal rose up into the clouds, the king telling him to slow. When Drogon passed below them, they quickly dove back down, nearly lining up with the black dragon’s side. Rhaegal hissed, snapping its teeth at Drogon’s neck.

The son of Rhaegar Targaryen then stood up and took a flying leap from one dragon to the other. In his hand was Longclaw, gleaming against the rays of sunshine that had managed to escape the clouds. Dany looked up in terror, eyes wide and heart pounding. Jon moved toward her with determination, but then he lowered his sword. She swallowed, breathing hard, looking between him and the Valyrian steel blade in confusion as he sheathed it within its leather scabbard.

“Daenerys, I am not your enemy!” he shouted above the deafening sound of the wind as Drogon soared through the air, going further and further north. “I have never been your enemy! I have never wanted your throne! If you refuse to accept that, if you refuse to accept that there is a greater enemy, one we both share, then you will not have a throne to rule from! You won’t have a realm to rule over! You will just be adding Queen of Corpses to all your fucking titles!”

Half a heartbeat later, a horn blew, a horn so loud it seemed to shake both earth and sky. He fell forward onto the black dragon’s back, and clutched at the blood red spine. The sun faded and the sky turned dark, the light grey of the clouds turning the color of charcoal. The winds blew and the sky filled with snow, the air around Jon and Dany becoming so cold that their chests burned.

The king turned back and looked at Rhaegal, following behind them. “Go back!” he shouted. “Go back to Winterfell! Protect them!” At first the green dragon hesitated, seemingly not understanding Jon’s commands. “GO!” he screamed. Rhaegal then turned, circling back through the sky towards the castle.

“What is happening?” she shouted, leaning forward to clutch the heat of Drogon’s scales.

Jon crawled up the dragon toward her, coming up next to her, wrapping his arm around her to hold them tight to Drogon’s back. “Are you ready to fight the real enemy, Daenerys? The Night King has finally come to wage war. It won’t be a war for a throne or for a kingdom, but for life itself. Are you ready to fight for your people?”

Dany stared at him, terror sinking its claws into her heart. She swallowed against the lump forming in her throat and then looked forward. The world had almost turned as dark as night, but it was just past midday. The wind blew, cold as ice, and snow fell from the darkening clouds. The dance had ended, but the real battle was just beginning.


	29. The Knights Of The Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _Broken,_ Bran thought bitterly as he clutched his knife. Is that what he was now? Bran the Broken? 'I don't want to be broken,' he whispered fiercely to Maester Luwin, who'd been seated to his right. 'I want to be a knight.'
> 
> 'There are some who call my order the knights of the mind,' Luwin replied. 'You are a surpassing clever boy when you work at it, Bran. Have you ever thought that you might wear a maester's chain? There is no limit to what you might learn.'" ~ A Game of Thrones, Bran VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI: There are probably some of you who read this fic solely for the Jon and/or Sansa scenes. Neither of them are featured in this chapter, although they are mentioned.

Samwell Tarly was taking his breakfast at the Quill and Tankard Inn, a tall, timbered building on an island in the slow-moving Honeywine river that flowed through the heart of Oldtown. He’d gotten a room for Gilly and Little Sam on the top floor as well as work for her in the tavern’s kitchen. The Citadel did not permit novices to keep wives or paramours, at least openly, and so he’d had to find housing for them in the city outside the Citadel’s gates. The Quill and Tankard was a well-known, reputable establishment. The innkeeper had assured him that Gilly would never be forced into working as a serving wench and her duties would be strictly confined to the kitchen.

In the mornings Sam made the trip to the Citadel after partaking of some breakfast, in hopes to finally meet with the archmaester at the Seneschal’s Court. He had been officially granted the privilege to begin maester training, been conferred the title as novice, but he had yet to meet with the archmaesters as a group. He’d promised Maester Aemon that he would speak to the Conclave about the prophecy and Daenerys Targaryen and her three dragons. Every day he was told that they were busy addressing more important matters and would see him in due time. He would then spend the majority of his day holed up in the Citadel’s library. In the evenings Sam would return to the Quill and Tankard to sup and drink some fearsomely strong cider, before climbing the stairs to join Gilly and Little Sam in their room.

Once he finished his breakfast, he gave some coins to the innkeeper and departed the Quill and Tankard. He crossed the weathered wooden drawbridge to the east bank and then made his way to the Citadel, which spread across both banks of the Honeywine. He entered the Citadel’s gates, flanked by a pair of large, green sphinxes, and went to find the maesters in the library. Sam then spent the morning studying medicine and healing. He was determined that his first metal link earned for his own maester’s chain would be silver.

After spending the morning at his studies, at midday he had some free time and went perusing about the library’s shelves looking for anything that might contain the information he was looking for. He didn’t have much luck. Closing a book, Sam heaved a sigh. Searching for information about the White Walkers had been harder than he’d imagined. Very little was written about them, at least what he had been able to find so far. But he couldn’t return to Castle Black without finding answers for Jon, without finding proof of the prophecy old Maester Aemon had said was so important. A voice then interrupted his thoughts.

“Such heavy sighs already? You have been here not even five days. What brings a brother of the Night’s Watch to the Citadel?”

Sam looked up and saw a slim, handsome youth, perhaps nineteen or twenty years of age, clad in an iron-studded green brigandine and doeskin breeches. His skin was the color of light brown ale, and tight black curls came to a widow’s peak above his large onyx eyes. From his belt hung a chain of four metal links. “The Lord Commander sent me. Our maester passed away, and so the Night’s Watch was in need of one. I felt it was my duty to come to the Citadel and study to become a maester. Are you a novice?”

The youth shook his head. “An acolyte. My name is Alleras, but some know me as Sphinx. You haven’t been able to get in to see Archmaester Theobald in the Seneschal?”

“No, every morning I go to the Court, but I am turned away. He is busy. I must speak before the Conclave.”

“You’ll find that if you sweeten your request with coins, the Seneschal archmaester will find the time to hear you,” Alleras smirked. “And someone of noble birth such as you should have plenty of coins. But if not, you’ll be waiting for days to see him.”

“What makes you think I am of noble birth?” he asked.

The acolyte smiled. “I can tell you are of noble birth the same way you can tell that I am of Dornish descent. Half-Dornish, actually. My mother is a black-skinned tradeswoman from the Summer Isles.”

He nodded, and glanced at the four earned links of what would no doubt become a full maester’s chain once it became large enough to wear around the neck. “Are you of noble birth as well?”

Alleras smirked again, but only shook his head. Sam thought he saw something like a humorous glint in the young man’s eyes. “No.”

“I do have some coins,” he replied. “And I really do need to speak with the archmaester at the Seneschal.”

“Well, I have come to prevent just that. The Conclave would not likely believe even half of what you could possibly have to tell them. But there is someone among the archmaesters who will listen to you, and take you seriously. He does not require any coins. I’ve come to take you to see him.”

He stood up from the table. “Where is he?”

Alleras started to turn away. “He’s not far. He resides on the Isle of Ravens. He sent me to bring you to him.”

Sam followed his guide, who spoke to him about the Citadel and the Isle of Ravens itself. Within the Citadel’s walls, the Isle of Ravens was linked to the east bank of the Honeywine river by a weathered, wooden drawbridge. The Ravenry, the oldest building of the Citadel, was the name of the castle that sat on the isle. It housed two separate rookeries, the black ravens being kept in the north tower and the white ravens in the west tower, the two raven groups needing to be kept apart to prevent them from quarreling.

Sam followed Alleras across the drawbridge and entered the Ravenry. It was cool and dim inside, and the castle’s walls were covered in creeping vines and purple moss. An ancient, purple moss-covered weirwood filled the castle’s yard, ravens filling its pale branches as well as the castle’s windows and battlements. Alleras opened the door to the north tower and began to climb, Sam following behind. Ravens fluttered and muttered in annoyance above them. At the top of the steps, they reached a door made of oak and iron.

The door opened and Sam saw an older man standing beyond the threshold. The man wore a maester’s chain of many metals around his thick neck. His white-grey hair was balding and bristly white hair sprouted from his ears and nose. He was heavy in his chest and shoulders, and a round hard belly strained the laces of the leather jerkin he wore instead of traditional grey robes. “Glad to see Sphinx got to you before the Seneschal did.”

Sam swallowed. “Are you one of the archmaesters?”

He smiled. “Yes, I am Archmaester Marwyn. Or more commonly known far and wide as Marwyn the Mage. Get in here, Sam the Slayer.”

He cleared his throat as he entered the chamber. “Well, I… Uh, the Slayer?”

Marwyn smiled as he closed the door behind Sam and Alleras. “Well, I was told that you struck down one of the Others beyond the Wall with a blade of dragonglass. Is the story true?”

“Yes, archmaester,” he replied, not understanding how the man could have known the tale. “The White Walkers are part of the reason why I am here, in the Citadel. Lord Commander Jon Snow instructed me to learn all I could about them before returning to Castle Black.”

The room was round and large. Scrolls and books were strewn across the tables and stacked up on the floor in piles four feet high. Faded tapestries and maps covered the stone walls. Aside from the fire burning in the hearth, the only light came from a tall black candle in the center of the room. The candle was uncomfortably bright, and there was something very strange about it. The flame did not flicker, even as a gust of wind blew across the room when the archmaester closed the door. The light turned the whites within the room as bright as snow, the color yellow shone like gold, the reds were as bright as flame, and the shadows were as black as jet. The candle was three feet tall and glittering black, and twisted with sharp edges.

The archmaester took a seat at the table. “The candle is dragonglass.”

Sam stared. Three black candles and one green were brought to the Citadel from Valyria over a thousand years before Aegon’s Conquest. Historically they were known to burn, but they had not been reported to burn in recent memory. The night before the acolytes swear their vows to become maesters, they had to stand a vigil in a vault with a black dragonglass candle. They would be allowed no lantern or any other source of light. Unless they found a way to light the candle, they would spend the night in total darkness. No one was ever able to light the dragonglass candle. The lesson was meant to teach new maesters that no matter how learned and skilled they may become, there were still some things that would remain impossible. “But how were you able to light it? What gave the candle its flame?”

“What gives a dragon its fire?” He shrugged. “Valyrian sorcery was rooted in either blood or fire. The sorcerers of Old Valyria could see across mountains and deserts and seas just by sitting in front of these candles. They could enter dreams and give men visions, and they could speak to one another even though thousands of leagues apart, just by sitting in front of one of those candles. That was how I knew you had come to the Citadel. I saw you in my candle.” He sighed. “I have also learned that there was a great tragedy at the wildling town called Hardhome, north of the Wall. The Others attacked, and Jon Snow slayed one with his sword.”

Sam’s brows creased, and he looked at the candle again. “Yes, I know. Longclaw is made of Valyrian steel.”

The archmaester nodded. “Valyrian sorcery went into the creation of Valyrian steel. There were just over two hundred of such swords in the Seven Kingdoms at last count, but many of them have been lost over time. Only a few remain.” Sam did not reply, did not reveal that he had stolen one such sword from his home at Horn Hill. Marwyn entwined his large fingers, and continued. “But that event at Hardhome is not the only reason why I sent for you. It seems as though the Wall has a new Lord Commander, a man by the name of Dolorous Edd.”

Eyes widening, he quickly stood up from the table. “What’s happened to Jon?”

“Have no fear. Jon Snow is fine. At least he was when the letter was written.” Marwyn pulled a scroll from his pocket and handed it over.

Sam reached for it and immediately began reading. Dolorous Edd had written the Citadel, informing the maesters of all that had transpired on the Wall. The mutiny that had resulted in the murder of the Lord Commander, Jon Snow’s miraculous resurrection by a red priestess of R’hllor, the executions of the murderers, and his departure from Castle Black to retake Winterfell alongside his half-sister, Sansa Stark, the position of Lord Commander then transferring to Edd. Looking up from the letter, he swallowed. “Jon… was killed? And then…”

The archmaester nodded. “Rose from his icy grave. He was dead, and then he was alive.”

“Edd isn’t one to exaggerate,” he replied. “Nor is he one to speak a falsehood.” Sam sat back down in his chair, his heart heavy, and his eyes filled with tears. Their brothers had turned on Jon, and stabbed him to death, at least those led by Ser Aliser Thorne, and he hadn’t been there to somehow warn him, to protect him. Even though by some miracle he was made alive again, Sam still felt like he had failed his friend. “Jon hadn’t wanted me to leave the Wall for Oldtown; he’d wanted me to stay, but I had convinced him to let me go. I told him that I’d be more use to him as a maester. But I wasn’t there when he’d needed me. And… without Jon at the Wall, what hope do we have to defend it against the White Walkers?”

Marwyn placed his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Take heart that Jon Snow is alive and well, and that I intercepted this letter from Castle Black before the other archmaesters could see it. I have yet to hear any news concerning Winterfell. It will likely be some time before we hear anything, if he plans to battle House Bolton for it. But there are other ways of gleaning information.” He paused, thinking. “Now, Slayer. Let’s hear your story.”

It all then came pouring out. Sam spoke about Stannis and Lady Melisandre of Asshai, king's blood, Mance Rayder and his wildlings, the wights at the Fist of the First Men, the White Walker on his dead horse, the murder of Lord Commander Mormont at Craster's Keep, Gilly and their flight to save her son, Whitetree and killing the Walker with the dragonglass blade, Jon becoming Lord Commander, Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons, and all that Maester Aemon whispered about the prophecy toward the end of his life. He held back only the secret that he had sworn to keep, about Bran Stark and his companions north of the Wall. “Daenerys is the realm’s only hope,” he concluded. “Maester Aemon said the Citadel must send her a maester right away and bring her home to Westeros before it is too late.”

Both Alleras and Marwyn listened intently, neither laughing nor interrupting. The archmaester considered the young man in black leather for a moment. “Old powers have woken and dark shadows are stirring. The world is now facing an age of great terror and amazing wonders, an age for gods and heroes. But the grey sheep have closed their eyes to this.”

“Do you believe the prophecy about the prince that was promised is true?” Sam asked. “Maester Aemon said it has been around for a thousand years.”

“An ancient scholar named Gorghan once said that prophecy was like a treacherous woman. She will take your cock in her mouth, you will moan with pleasure, but then her will teeth snap shut and you will end up screaming. Gorghan said prophecy will bite your prick off every time.” He paused, thinking. “Still… I know the prophecy very well. Many of the maesters do.” He stood up from the table and crossed the room to one of the many piles of books. Upon finding the one he was looking for, he returned to the table, setting the book down. He turned the old parchment pages, and slid the book over in front of Sam.

He looked down, reading the words of the prophecy. It was all there – the birth of a prince (or princess according to Maester Aemon, as High Valyrian nouns did not distinguish between male and female), born amidst smoke and salt, beneath a bleeding star. _Dragons will waken from stone and the dark eye will fall upon the prince. The minions of night will plot his destruction, conspiring betrayal. But when the darkness falls upon the world, in this dread hour the warrior will draw from the fire a burning sword, and the cold darkness shall flee from him._

He looked up from the book. “The Lady Melisandre said that the prince that was promised would forge the burning sword called Lightbringer. That he would try several times, failing, but on the third try he would succeed.”

“Yes, I have heard that story too,” Marwyn replied. “Of the last hero reborn. In many different places he is known by many different names, and the red priests and priestesses of Asshai refer to him as Azor Ahai. The story of the last hero is in another one of these books.” He waved at the stacks piled up around the room. “Prince Rhaegar was obsessed with these prophecies. He read them as a youth, decided that he himself was supposed to be the hero prince, and decided to take up a sword and become a warrior. But as he grew older, the dragons never returned, and he decided that his own son must be the promised prince. He often corresponded with maesters at the Citadel, enquiring about the prophecy and about various swords known throughout history. He was determined to find Lightbringer.”

Sam remembered the old maester waking up, feverish, weeping and wailing. _The dragon must have three heads… but I am too old to be one of them. I should be with her, showing her the way, but my body has betrayed me._ “What of the dragon having three heads?”

The archmaester nodded. “The three-headed dragon is the sigil of House Targaryen. Believing the promised prince to be coming through the Targaryen line, then this saying – _the dragon must have three heads –_ would no doubt play into the prophecy, at least it did in Rhaegar’s mind. The last hero who fought the Others eight thousand years ago did not do so alone. There were others who fought beside him. So Rhaegar also believed that there would be three, two to stand beside his son, Prince Aegon.”

“So then Prince Rhaegar would have been trying for three… to fulfill the prophecy?” Sam asked.

“His wife, Princess Elia, died along with his daughter Rhaenys and son Aegon, whose head was bashed against the wall by the Lannister forces.” He chewed on his lip, thinking. “When Aegon was born, the maesters told Rhaegar that Elia would never be able to have another child. She was bedridden for half a year after Rhaenys was born and nearly died giving birth to Aegon. But… believing as fiercely as he did in the prophecy, and the need for a three-headed dragon, Rhaegar may have been driven to have a third child by another means. Yet the prince was an honorable man, and was not prone to visiting brothels or lying with tavern wenches.” He licked his lips. “How much do you know of what occurred between Prince Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark?”

Sam shrugged. “Rhaegar kidnapped Lyanna Stark, who was betrothed to Robert Baratheon, and this led to Robert’s Rebellion and the end of the Targaryen dynasty.”

Marwyn glanced at Alleras, nodding. “I am not so sure about the kidnapping part of the tale. But not so long ago, following the death of King Tommen, I heard that a small group of maesters here at the Citadel went looking into the events leading up to the Rebellion, and Rhaegar’s whereabouts during that year he was gone from King’s Landing following Lyanna’s… abduction, his movements as well as the movements of the Kingsguard. It was not long before that small group of maesters all ended up dead by various means. It makes you wonder if they actually learned anything important. If they _had_ found something worthwhile, they certainly wouldn’t have gone to the archmaesters with it. Or perhaps they did, and that is why their lives met an unnatural end.”

He shook his head, thinking. “But Maester Aemon said that Daenerys was the one who was promised. Not Prince Rhaegar or his son Aegon. Being born in Dragonstone and her three dragons prove it. Aemon said the dragon must have three heads, and he would have gone to her if he’d been well enough. He wanted to. He wanted to come and tell the Citadel so they would send her a maester.”

“Then perhaps it is just as well that Aemon never made it to Oldtown to speak to the Conclave. They would have killed him.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Kill Maester Aemon? Why?”

Marwyn shook his head, sighing. “The archmaesters will not be able to help you. Help you to become a maester, indeed they will. Help you to fight the White Walkers or to aid Daenerys, they will not. The Citadel is building a world that has no use for frightened talk of the Others or prophecies or magic or dragonglass, let alone dragons. Who do you think killed off all the dragons the last time? Mighty dragonslayers? Gallant heroes with steel swords? Aemon Targaryen wasted his life up on the Wall when he rightfully should have been called to the Citadel to become an archmaester, and his blood was the reason why. Targaryen blood cannot be trusted, not by the Citadel. It would not surprise me to learn that the grey sheep were planning to send assassins after Daenerys and her dragons. I must reach her first.”

“What are you going to do?” Alleras asked, watching the archmaester move about the large room.

“There is a swan ship departing for Essos tonight. I am going to get myself to Meereen in Maester Aemon’s stead. The fair winds should mean my travel will be swift. Daenerys will need guidance and help to come home to Westeros.” He glanced at Sam as he lifted a canvas bag from his wardrobe. “You must forge your maester’s chain as quickly as possible and then get back to the Wall as quickly as possible. They will need you.” He then turned to the half-Dornish acolyte. “Find the Slayer a bedchamber. He will sleep here in the north tower and help tend to the ravens while I am gone.”

Everything was happening too fast for Sam. “But… but… what about the other archmaesters, and the Seneschal… what am I supposed to tell them?”

Marwyn gathered up some clothes, stuffing them into the bag. “Flatter them. Tell them that they are all-knowing and good, and that Maester Aemon commanded you to come here to the Citadel to learn from the wisest in the realm. Tell them that it has always been your dream ever since you were a young child to come to the Citadel and become a maester and serve the greater good. But if you ever say anything about Daenerys and dragons or prophecies and Jon Snow’s resurrection or White Walkers and dragonglass, then expect some poison to wind up in your breakfast one morning.”

The archmaester then lifted his cloak from a peg near the door and tied it about his throat. “Sphinx, look after the Slayer. He will need a friend.”

“I will. I promise.” But Marwyn was gone before Alleras had even finished speaking.

“You don’t have to call me Slayer. My name is Samwell Tarly. You can just call me Sam.”

Alleras smiled a soft smile. “All right, Sam. Let’s find you somewhere to sleep. The stone walls get cold at night, even down south. I will make sure to get you some woolen bedcovers.”

He looked out the window; it was already growing dark. He then looked at the strange glow of the candle. “I would like to stay here and read for a while. Would that be permitted?”

“I’ll stay too.” The acolyte pulled up a chair and sat down across from him.

Sam read long into the night, of prophecies and old history, the dragonglass candle never waning.

*****

After doing just what Marwyn the Mage had instructed him, told Archmaester Theobald at the Seneschal all that he’d been commanded to say, Sam was officially granted room in the north tower of the Ravenry and permission to return to the Wall as the official maester of Castle Black once his studies at the Citadel were completed. The acolyte Alleras had earned four links to his maester’s chain in just over a year in Oldtown. Other acolytes had earned more links, had been in the Citadel for years, yet still hadn’t earned enough to form a maester’s chain. Some novices had been in the Citadel longer than Alleras and hadn’t even earned one metal link. But Sam found that some of them were more disposed to drinking, gambling, and whoring than reading.

He spent all day studying in the library or learning in various maesters’ chambers, and most nights reading up in Marwyn’s room in the north tower. Sometimes, after supping in the Quill and Tankard with Alleras, he would spend the night with Gilly and Little Sam, returning to the Citadel in the morning. But no matter how diligent he was about his studies, he felt disheartened. How long would it take to become a maester? Years. He doubted whether he had years. Would the White Walkers wait years to attack?

Without Jon at the Wall, Sam had found that his desire to return to Castle Black had faded almost to nonexistence. He'd promised Jon that he would come back, but now Jon wasn't there anymore. He didn’t want to betray his vows. He’d gone to the weirwood grove with Jon and said the words before a heart tree. He felt honor-bound to keep them. But he couldn’t return there with Gilly and the baby. There was no place for them there. How could he leave her? He’d sworn a promise to her, too. _Where you go, I go._ But where did his duty truly lie? Which promise was more important, the one he’d made to the Night’s Watch or to the woman he loved?

One evening, after having spent three weeks at the Citadel, Sam returned to the Ravenry’s north tower with Alleras after supping at the Quill and Tankard. Once they’d tended to the ravens, they entered Marwyn’s chamber. He had already gone through three piles of the archmaester’s books, and was making his way through a fourth stack with help from his new friend. He lifted a book from the large pile, heavy and bound in leather – _Jade Compendium_ written by Colloquo Votar. It was a collection of legends and stories from Essos, and a copy of it was also at Castle Black. One day Maester Aemon had told him to go into the library and fetch some books. The _Jade Compendium_ was one of them. When Stannis and the Lady Melisandre had come to the Wall, he’d overheard Maester Aemon tell Jon that he’d left the _Jade Compendium_ in his chambers, and that there was a passage he might find interesting. Sam read silently for a while, until he indeed found something interesting.

“The tale of Lightbringer,” he said excitedly. “I found it.”

Alleras smiled. “Read it, then.”

Nodding, Sam began to read aloud. “It was a time when darkness lay heavy on the world. To oppose the darkness, a hero decided to forge a hero’s blade, like none that had ever been. And so for thirty days and thirty nights Azor Ahai labored sleepless in the Temple of R’hllor, forging a blade in the sacred fires using heat and hammer and fold, until the sword was done. Yet when he plunged it into water to temper the steel it burst asunder.

“Being a hero, he was not one to give up easily, and so again he began. The second time it took him fifty days and fifty nights and this sword seemed even finer than the first. Azor Ahai then captured a lion, and tempered the blade by plunging it through the beast’s red heart, but once more the steel shattered and split. His woe and his sorrow was great, for he knew what had to be done.

“A hundred days and a hundred nights he labored on the third blade, and as it glowed white-hot in the sacred fires, he summoned his wife. ‘Nissa Nissa, bare your breast, and know that I love you more than all that is in this world.’ She did as her husband commanded, and Azor Ahai thrust the smoking sword through her living heart. Her cry of anguish and ecstasy was so great it left a crack across the face of the moon. Her blood and her soul and her strength and her courage all went into the steel of the blade. Tempered with the blood of his beloved wife, Azor Ahai’s sword was thereafter never cold to the touch, but warm just as Nissa Nissa had been warm. Such is the tale of the forging of Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes.”

He looked up from the _Jade Compendium_. “The sword of Stannis, the one the Lady Melisandre called Lightbringer, it didn’t give off any heat. It glowed red, like a fire, but it wasn’t warm.”

Alleras rolled his eyes. “Can you see any woman just sitting there and letting her husband stab her through the chest? And if he loved his wife so much, why he would kill her just to make a sword?”

“It’s just a legend,” he replied, almost defensively. “I am sure the details are a bit… muddled.”

The acolyte chuckled. “Whoever believes that Azor Ahai story is muddled in the head.” He then scoffed, muttering under his breath. “And written by a man, of course. Nice, obedient wife who will just sit there and bare her breast so her hero husband can thrust his _great_ , _big_ sword into her heart until she _screams_ in ecstasy so loud it cracks the fucking moon.”

Looking up from the book, Sam furrowed his brows at his new friend and let out a surprised, breathy laugh. The two companions then started laughing until their sides ached. They continued reading long into the night, slowly making their way through the stack of books.

“Sam.”

He looked up to see Alleras looking down at a very old book as he carried it over to the table they shared. The pages looked to be yellowed, and were frayed at the edges. “The writing on the parchment is faded, but it still can be read,” said the acolyte, briefly flipping through the pages. He turned the book around and slid it across the table towards the novice.

Sam grasped the book and looked down at the heavy leather-bound cover: _Watchers on the Wall_ written by Archmaester Harmune. Abandoning the one he’d been reading, a hundred-year-old discourse on the history of Valyrian steel in Westeros by a long-dead maester, he immediately began reading aloud the book by Harmune.

“The Night’s Watch is one of the oldest orders in the Seven Kingdoms, as it survived the fall of the kingdoms of the First Men, the Andal invasion, and Aegon Targaryen’s War of Conquest. It was founded over eight thousand years ago, at the end of the Long Night. Under cover of an endless night that lasted for a generation, the Others invaded from the Land of Always Winter, bringing devastation to much of Westeros, until the Others were finally defeated by the Night’s Watch at the Battle for the Dawn. After having pushed back the threat, the Wall was then built by Brandon the Builder, King of Winter and founder of House Stark who also built Winterfell, in order to protect the Seven Kingdoms should the Others ever return. During the Age of Heroes it was also recorded that the children of the forest gave the Night’s Watch a hundred obsidian daggers every year.

"Other than the corrupting of the thirteenth Lord Commander, the Night’s King, further attacks by the Others never came again. Instead, the most frequent attacks came from the peoples known as the wildlings, who call themselves the free folk. Sometimes these attacks were led by their Kings-Beyond-the-Wall as they frequently attempted raiding in the north.”

His guts churning, Sam recalled the story Jon had told him when he’d returned to Castle Black from Hardhome. Of the Walker with something like the shape of a crown around his head, raising his arms to raise the fallen dead as wights. Yet Archmaester Harmune had said in his book that this Night’s King was linked to the Night’s Watch. But he’d never heard such a tale before.

He then began to read the legends of the Nightfort, once the chief seat of the Watch for thousands of years. He soon came to the story in question. The oldest legend accounted by the archmaester was the infamous thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. Sam read it aloud to Alleras.

“The thirteenth Lord Commander was said to have had the habit of walking about a weirwood grove north of the Nightfort and speaking to the trees. Every evening he walked among the weirwoods, as if searching for some answer, or waiting for someone or something. One such evening, as the last light of day faded beyond the horizon, a sorceress appeared in the grove, with skin pale as a corpse and eyes like blue stars. Upon sight of the pale woman, the Lord Commander gave chase, following her deeper and deeper into the forest. Finally, he caught her and loved her. He bedded her, though her skin was cold as ice, and when he gave his seed to her he gave up his soul. The Lord Commander brought the pale woman back to the Nightfort and declared himself a king. For thirteen years the Night’s King and his corpse queen ruled together, a dark reign full of terrors, until King of Winter and Lord of Winterfell, Brandon the Breaker, in alliance with the King-Beyond-the-Wall, Joramun, brought them down. The Night’s Watch was freed. Thereafter, the King of Winter forbade the speaking of the Night’s King’s very name and soon it was obliterated from all living memory.”

Silence fell over the room as he stopped reading, a grim expression spreading across his face. “He laid with a White Walker…” Sam said under his breath in disgust.

“Didn’t you know of this tale?” asked Alleras.

He shook his head. No one at Castle Black had ever spoken of it. Although Jeor Mormont often hinted at the terrible stories he could tell if he was so inclined, about the White Walkers as well as brothers of the Night’s Watch, including lord commanders, who had failed to uphold their vows in the most horrific ways. Thankfully, he had never felt the inclination.

Eventually Sam reached the end of the book. The very last pages contained an appendix. The parchment wasn’t so faded, as if the pages hadn’t been as exposed to air and men’s fingers as the rest of the book. The appendix told of the Long Night and the Battle for the Dawn, and Sam read it aloud.

“In the midst of a great winter that lasted for years, a terrible darkness fell across the Known World, which became laid in waste by famine and terrors. In the midst of this darkness called the Long Night, the Others emerged from the far north, wielding razor-thin swords of ice and raising the dead to fight the living. The First Men fought against them, but were driven southwards by their advance.

“Then one day, as cold and death filled the earth, a hero arose. From whence he came, it is not known. He was determined to seek out the children of the forest, in the hopes that their ancient magic could win back what the armies of men had lost. He set out into the dead lands with a sword, a horse, a dog, and a dozen companions. For years he searched, he and his companions surviving constant attacks from giants, wights, and Others, until he despaired of ever finding the children of the forest in their secret cities in the wood. One by one his friends died, and his horse, and his dog, and finally his sword froze so hard the blade snapped from its hilt when he tried to use it. The Others smelled the warmth of his blood, and came silent on his trail, stalking him.

“It was then that the children of the forest emerged from their hiding places, saving the last hero from the Others. They brought him to one of their secret cities, fed him, bathed him, and covered his body with warm clothing. But he despaired his broken sword, for what was a hero without a sword? The children of the forest spoke quietly amongst themselves, and agreed to help the man. They supplied him with obsidian daggers, enough to fill several leather bags. They also agreed to help him forge a new sword, similar to the blade that had broken, yet more powerful than any sword the world had ever known.

“They brought him to a great weirwood tree and called upon the gods of the wood. In answer to their prayers, a star fell from the sky, a gift to them from the gods. It burned whiter and hotter than any fire the man had ever seen. Taking hold of his broken blade, he thrust it into the heart of the fallen star. He labored for many days and nights until it was done, pouring his soul and his strength and his courage into the sword’s forging. As the blade was pulled from the heart of the burning star, the children of the forest came to stand around the sword, speaking their magic in a language the last hero did not understand. They carried a large basin made of weirwood and inside was a blood-red liquid made from the weirwood’s sap. Using this liquid, the sword was tempered.

“The last hero’s fears that the beautiful blade would become stained blood-red were unfounded. As the sword tempered, the weirwood sap soaked into the blade until none was left inside the basin, and when he lifted the sword no red color could be seen. The blade was as pale white as milkglass, alive with starlight, and was stronger and sharper than any blade he had ever known, yet it was not a burden to carry. Determined to bring an end to the Long Night, the last hero named the sword Lightbringer.

“The children of the forest then departed their secret cities in the woods to accompany the last hero back to the realms of the First Men. The Night’s Watch was formed, and when it was discovered that the obsidian daggers gifted by the children could kill the Others, the Battle for the Dawn began. The children and the First Men fought side by side. Wielding Lightbringer, when the last hero thrust his blade into the Others, they burst into flames. Eventually the remaining Others were sent into retreat, back to the Land of Always Winter. This ended the generation-long darkness. The terrible winter receded, the night ended, and the dawn arose once more.”

Silence filled the chamber as Sam finished reading. The dragonglass candle’s flame was still burning, never dying out or even flickering. His guts twisted. The Others were once again gathering forces of the dead, thousands and thousands of wights. Jon believed it was only a matter of time before another Long Night enveloped the land. What if it became the long night that never ended? There wasn’t enough Valyrian steel and dragonglass left to fight them.

Alleras chewed on his lip. “Marwyn says that here in the Citadel, the archmaesters largely dismiss all those legends—though some agree that there may have been a Lord Commander who attempted to make a kingdom for himself on the Wall in the earliest days of the Watch. Some maesters say that perhaps the corpse queen was a woman of the Barrowlands, a daughter of the Barrow King, and so she would be naturally associated with death and graves. Some say the Night’s King was a Bolton, while others say he was an Umber, a Flint, a Norrey, or a Stark, depending on who is telling the story, and where they’re telling it. But here in the Citadel, none of the archmaesters believe the Others ever existed, that ice demons of the north ever invaded Westeros during the Long Night. The archmaesters believe the Others are just imagined creatures from scary stories told in the North. Well, except Marwyn, of course.”

“Then how are the people of Westeros going to stop them if the maesters are telling everyone that the White Walkers are just scary stories the northerners tell their children to keep them from wandering from their beds in the night?” Sam sighed. He felt frustrated. It would take him years to become a maester, to do anything useful. Jon was no longer at the Wall. He supposed he should hope in Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons. But the maesters at the Citadel would not help her either, and might even try to kill her, from what Marwyn had said. He suddenly felt like the realm was doomed.

The acolyte reached across the table and laid his hand on Sam’s arm. “Then it is up to the people who do believe to do everything they can to fight them.” He paused, thinking. “Or at least do everything they can to aid those who can fight them.” Alleras nodded at the book which still lay open in front of Sam. “The last hero had a sword that could fight them.”

Sam scoffed. “Jon Snow wielded a Valyrian steel sword and killed one of them. But the oldest known Valyrian steel swords in Westeros history did not appear until five or six hundred years ago. There wouldn’t have been Valyrian steel swords in Westeros eight thousand years ago for this last hero to carry. And there are not many Valyrian steel swords left. I have never heard of this Lightbringer belonging to any House. The Lady Melisandre called Stannis’ sword by that name, but Maester Aemon doubted it was truly Lightbringer. Stannis had pulled it from a fire, but the sword didn’t burn hot.”

The acolyte nodded, pursing his lips. “The last hero’s sword was not Valyrian steel. Valyrian steel is a grey color as dark as smoke. The blade of the last hero’s sword was as pale as milkglass.”

Sighing, he closed the book. “And made from the heart of a fallen star. It’s no wonder the maesters refuse to believe.”

“What do you know of the noble houses in Dorne? House Dayne, for instance?”

“It’s one of the most ancient houses in the Seven Kingdoms,” Sam replied.

Alleras smirked. “Perhaps we should pay them a visit.”

*****

Rolling up the white parchment, the half-Dornish acolyte pressed Archmaester Marwyn’s seal into the soft dark grey wax. He then stood up from the table and walked out of the room, Sam following behind.

“What did you write?” he asked.

“I informed the maester of Starfall that I, Marwyn the Mage, had decided to author a new book featuring excerpts from the long-lost _Signs and Portents_ , and believe the maester would be able to provide some vital information concerning House Dayne’s history. Marwyn will be sending his two representatives from the Citadel to speak with the maester.”

Sam continued to follow him down the stone steps of the north tower. “How can we leave Oldtown? What about our maester studies?”

Alleras smiled. “The Citadel is not going anywhere. Besides, will the maester studies help you to aid your brothers of the Night’s Watch? Or help you to aid…” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Daenerys? Or your friend, Jon Snow? Some things are more important.”

They made their way to the rookery in the west tower. Alleras took a raven from one of the cages, stroked its feathers, attached the roll of parchment, and said, “Fly to the castle Starfall in Dorne, brave one. Go on.” The white bird warbled something unintelligible back at him, and he tossed it into the air. Flapping, it beat its way skyward away from the tower. Sam had also written a brief message, and attached it to a raven, sending it to Castle Black.

Alleras turned and smiled. “He will reach Starfall before we do. So let us pack some bags and head to the Quill and Tankard.”

“The Quill and Tankard?” he said, confused, following his friend back down the stone steps. “What’s at the Quill and Tankard?”

“Your woman and your child, Sam!” he replied, laughing with the tone of astonishment. “Why would you leave them here? We may not be coming back this way when we depart Starfall.”

His stomach knotted. “I… I don’t have a woman or a child. I am a man of the Night’s Watch and I am sworn to…”

Alleras laughed, shaking his head. “Yes, you said a vow. But you fucked a girl all the same and now you have a child. You have brought them here to Oldtown with you and are housing them at the inn. I notice when you sneak back to its kitchen and speak with the innkeeper. I notice the nights you do not come back with me to the Citadel. There is no shame in this. In Dorne, there is no shame in love, no matter who you love or how many. There is no shame in having a bastard. I am a bastard, and I have never felt nothing but loved and accepted by those in my family and others in the place where I am from. The septons of the Faith teach there is shame in loving. The Seven must be demons. The gods gave us legs to run with, ears to hear with, eyes to see with, mouths to taste with, and hands to touch and feel.” He turned abruptly and shoved his hand between Sam’s legs. “You were given a cock for a reason, to give love and pleasure and make children. Only mad, cruel gods would then forbid you to use it.”

Stunned into silence, Sam watched his companion turn back around and continue down the stone steps. The dilemma still raged inside him, whether to desert his brothers or abandon Gilly and return to the Wall. Bags packed, Sam and Alleras soon walked across the weathered, wooden drawbridge from the Ravenry and made their way out of the Citadel. They walked along the shoreline of the Honeywine until they came to the bridge that connected the east bank to the Quill and Tankard Inn.

“Get your woman and your child, and meet me down at the docks,” instructed Alleras. “I’m going to get us on a ship to Dorne.”

After watching the acolyte walk away down the cobbled street, Sam crossed the bridge. Once inside the inn, he climbed the flights of wooden stairs until he reached the fourth floor. He knocked on Gilly’s door. Several moments later, the oak door opened. She stood there in a linen shift, blinking slowly as if having just woken from sleep.

“Sam. What are you doing here?”

He stepped across the threshold and turned as she closed the door. He looked around the familiar room, with its featherbed large enough to sleep four, wardrobe, and silver candlesticks. Some books were against the wall in a neat pile. Little Sam was asleep in the bed. “We’re leaving Oldtown. Pack up your things and we’ll leave as soon as you’re ready.”

Eyes widening, she stepped forward. “Leave Oldtown? Why? What’s happened?”

He placed his hands on her arms reassuringly. “Nothing’s happened. Don’t worry. And it’s not forever. I may come back someday and complete my training. We might have found something useful to fight the White Walkers. And if it turns out to be true, I won’t be needed here in the Citadel, at least right now. My brothers will need me. Jon isn’t at the Wall anymore. And if I stay in Oldtown, knowing that I could have helped them, I know I’ll regret it.”

She gave him a small smile, and nodded. “I have never known a braver man than you, Samwell Tarly,” she said, her voice just above a whisper, before leaning forward and giving him a kiss.

His cheeks turned red, and he watched her pack her clothes and books into a canvas sack. After leaving a copper star and two pennies, and lifting a still-sleeping Little Sam from the bed, they quietly departed the Quill and Tankard. They kept to the river road that wound beside the Honeywine, moving south towards the docks. It wasn’t long before they met up with Alleras, who introduced himself to Gilly with an amiable smile.

“I got us passage on the _Seastrider,_ ” he said as they followed him. “A trading cog that’s departing for the southern coast of Dorne in the morning. When the ship reaches the Summer Sea, the captain agreed to sail us to the Torentine. We should reach Starfall in a month.”

“How did you get him to agree to that?” asked Sam, impressed.

Alleras smirked, his large onyx eyes glinting with humor, and shrugged his shoulders. “I can be very persuasive when I need to be.”

Not looking forward to another miserable journey aboard a ship, Sam followed Alleras and Gilly up a wooden plank and boarded _Seastrider_. At dawn, the ship sailed from Oldtown, south through the waters of the Whispering Sound and into the Sunset Sea, sailing east towards the Arbor, and upon reaching the Summer Sea, the trading vessel sailed up along the coast to the mouth of the Torentine river. The ship made its way north toward the Red Mountains until it came upon an island in the Torentine where the river poured into the Summer Sea. On the island was a castle with white stone walls and towers. The tallest tower was called the Palestone Sword, Alleras told them, which served to guard the western arm of Dorne. Standing up on the deck of the _Seastrider_ , Sam glimpsed banners dancing in the wind above the castle’s towers, bearing a blazing falling star crossed by a sword, both white, against a field of lilac.

The ship was soon docked, and Sam, Gilly with her child in her arms, and Alleras walked down the plank along with the captain. As they made their way up the road that led to Starfall, three knights in glittering armor sitting atop white horses rode out to greet them.

“We have come from the Citadel,” Alleras called out.

“You are expected,” replied one of the knights in a friendly manner. “Edric Dayne, Lord of Starfall, and Maester Myles await you inside the castle. A welcoming feast is planned and bedchambers have been prepared. The _Seastrider_ has been granted permission to dock on our island for three days for rest and to replenish any supplies. The castle will have anything that you may need, captain.”

“A feast?” said Sam, surprised, suddenly feeling nervous. “Surely that isn’t necessary.”

The knight smiled. “We do not often receive visitors. We were glad for the excuse. Lord Edric has just recently returned himself, after spending the last few years as page and squire for Lord Beric Dondarrion.”

Guts twisting at the thought of the unknown that waited for them inside, and feeling uneasy about the confident smirk on the face of Alleras, Sam and his companions followed the knights to the castle. The ship captain returned to his vessel where it would dock for the next three days. Once inside its white stone walls they were warmly greeted by the Lord of Starfall, a youth of thirteen or fourteen years, with pale blond hair and dark blue eyes that looked almost purple.

“Lord Dayne,” said Alleras, bowing. Sam and Gilly bowed as well.

“You can call me Ned, my lords and lady,” the boy replied.

The maester, standing beside the young lord in grey robes, heaved an exasperated sigh. Ned grinned. His eyes fell upon Sam and his black jerkin, breeches, and cloak. “Are you of the Night’s Watch?” he asked excitedly.

Sam nodded. “Indeed I am.”

“Then you must know Jon Snow,” Ned replied. “He was Lord Commander.”

“Aye, I do. He’s my brother and my best friend. He was Lord Commander, yes. But he has since departed the Wall for Winterfell. Another has taken on the position of Lord Commander.”

Maester Myles pursed his lips. “And he has won Winterfell from House Bolton. We received a raven just yesterday. He reclaimed the seat of House Stark with an army of wildlings, northmen, and the Knights of the Vale.”

Ned grinned broadly, as if he himself was proud of the accomplishment. “Jon Snow and I were milk brothers.”

Alleras nodded, understanding. But a confused expression spread across Sam’s face. “Milk brothers?”

“His mother was my wet nurse,” explained the young lord. “My own lady mother did not have enough milk, so a servant of ours named Wylla became my nurse. She was a servant here at Starfall for many years, since before I was born. And Wylla was Jon Snow’s mother.”

“Jon… Jon’s mother?” replied Sam. His throat went dry and he swallowed. “But Jon never knew his mother. He doesn’t even know her name.”

Smiling, the young lord and his maester turned to walk further into the castle. “I swear on the honor of my house that it is true,” Ned replied.

“Lord Eddard Stark came here to Starfall,” said Myles. “He took Wylla and the infant Jon Snow back with him to Winterfell. Nearly three years later, she returned to Starfall to continue serving House Dayne.”

Sam didn’t know what to say in reply. Jon hadn’t known who his mother was. Maybe he should write him. Or tell him the next time he saw him.  

They were then given a guided tour of Starfall as Maester Myles and Ned Dayne discussed the history of the castle. “The Daynes of Starfall are one of the most ancient houses in Westeros, though their fame is largely because of their ancestral sword, called Dawn, and the legendary men who wielded it. Its origins are lost to legend, of course, but the Daynes have carried it for thousands of years.”

They entered a large chamber, cloaked in darkness. A long table surrounded by ten chairs was in the middle of the room. A white greatsword was hung up on the wall, glittering even in the dark. Myles went about lighting candles. “As you can see, it looks like no Valyrian steel, the blade being pale white, but in all other respects it shares the properties of Valyrian blades, being incredibly strong and sharp. One distinction, though, is that the blade feels warm to the touch.”

The young lord nodded towards the greatsword up on the wall. “Go ahead, my lords. See for yourself.”

Sam and Alleras stepped closer to the wall. They then reached up to place their hands close to the sword, immediately feeling warmth against their palms, emitting from the blade. Exchanging knowing looks, they lowered their hands and turned to face the maester and Lord Dayne.

“Though many houses have their own heirloom swords, they pass the blades down from lord to lord, fathers to eldest sons,” continued Myles. “But that is not the way of House Dayne. Only a knight of House Dayne who is deemed worthy can carry it, and the wielder of Dawn is always given the title of Sword of the Morning. Because of this, the Swords of the Morning are all famous throughout the Seven Kingdoms. There are boys all over Dorne who secretly dream of being a knight of Starfall so they might someday claim that famed sword and its title.”

“Most famous of all was my uncle, Ser Arthur Dayne, the deadliest of King Aerys II’s Kingsguard, who won renown in every tourney within the Seven Kingdoms,” added Ned. “He died gallantly with his sworn brothers at the end of Robert’s Rebellion, after Lord Eddard Stark killed him in single combat at the Tower of Joy. Lord Stark then returned Dawn to Starfall, giving the sword to my aunt, Lady Ashara, as a sign of respect. No one has carried Dawn since the death of Ser Arthur. He died before I was born, of course. My father was his elder brother. I never knew my aunt either. She threw herself into the sea from atop the Palestone Sword.”

Gilly stared from the shining white blade to the young lord, her eyes going wide. “And that was after Lord Stark left with Wylla and Jon Snow, my lord?”

Ned smiled sadly. “Yes, shortly after.”

While Alleras started asking Myles questions concerning the legend of Dawn and its forging thousands of years ago, Gilly and Sam took more interest in the story of Lady Ashara and Lord Stark. “Why would your aunt throw herself from the tower?” she asked.

Hesitating, Ned glanced warily between Sam and Gilly. “Jon Snow never told you any stories? Stories about his lord father and the Lady Ashara Dayne of Starfall?”

They shook their heads. “I can tell you that Jon would be glad to know, my lord,” answered Sam. “He deeply mourned the loss of his father, and it would be my honor to tell him anything you might know the next time we meet.”

Ned looked uneasily at his maester, and drew them further away from Myles and Alleras. “Before Robert’s Rebellion, when King Aerys still ruled, Lady Ashara met Lord Eddard and his brothers at the Tourney of Harrenhal. She was a handmaiden to Princess Elia.”

“But why did she jump from the tower?”

“Because her heart was broken.”

Sam glanced between Ned and Gilly. “Who broke her heart?”

The young lord sighed. “My aunt Lady Allyria, my lord father’s youngest sister, says that Lady Ashara and Lord Eddard fell in love at Harrenhal. Later that year, she gave birth to a stillborn daughter. After the Sack of King’s Landing and the death of Princess Elia, she left the Red Keep and returned to Starfall. Sometime later, Lord Eddard showed up in Starfall with the news of Ser Arthur’s death along with Dawn, and then left, taking Wylla and Jon Snow with him.”

“Lord Stark should have wed Lady Ashara,” said Gilly sadly.

“He couldn’t have,” Ned replied. “Although he had been free at Harrenhal, the deaths of his father and elder brother changed everything. My aunt Allyria says that Lord Eddard had to marry Lady Catelyn Tully to maintain House Stark’s alliance with the Riverlands. When he showed up in Starfall and met Lady Ashara again, he was already wed to someone else.”

When the tour ended, the three companions offered many thanks to their kind and generous hosts. A servant then led them up one of the towers to the guest quarters. When the servant departed, they gathered inside Sam’s bedchamber. They told Alleras all that Edric Dayne had said.

He shook his head. “Maester Myles said that Lord Stark actually showed up at Starfall _with_ Jon Snow, but needing a wet nurse, he took Wylla with him when he left.”

“But if Wylla is not Jon’s mother, then who is?” Sam sat down in the wooden chair beside the window, brows furrowing.

A pair of large onyx eyes widened. “I think I know.”


	30. The Swords In The Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They said the words together, as the last light faded in the west and grey day became black night.
> 
> 'Hear my words, and bear witness to my vow,' they recited, their voices filling the twilit grove. 'Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.'
> 
> The woods fell silent. 'You knelt as boys,' Bowen Marsh intoned solemnly. 'Rise now as men of the Night's Watch.'" ~ A Game of Thrones, Jon VI

A shadow emerged from the dark of the forest. It was tall and thin and hard, with flesh white as milk. It wore a sleeveless gown that seemed to change color as it moved – white as snow, black as shadow, and everywhere flecked with the deep grey-green color of the trees. With every step it took, the patterns of the gown moved like moonlight over the surface of water. Bran then saw its eyes; a deeper and bluer blue than any human eyes, a blue that burned like ice and shone like stars.  

The White Walker slid forward on silent feet, leaving no footprints behind, and entered the small clearing within the forest, the light of the moon breaking through the darkness, revealing its face and form. Bran could tell it was female, the only female Other he had ever seen. On that horrible night when he had foolishly went in among them without the three-eyed raven’s guidance and was grabbed by the Night King, he'd noticed the thirteen Walkers lined up together. They were a small number compared to the endless throng of gathered wights, but they were all male, not a female among them.

As Bran watched her from the face of the weirwood tree, he wondered if the female Others had died out, if only a few had remained following the Battle for the Dawn. He wondered if the White Walkers were able to increase their numbers without any females. He then remembered Gilly and Samwell Tarly's tale about Craster only offering up his male children as sacrifices. He supposed it wouldn’t be too difficult to find out what happened to the babes once they were taken, but there were some things that he never wanted to know.

Bran found himself just staring at the Walker woman, mesmerized. The more he watched, the less he felt repelled by her. As time went on, he started to think her face was appealing in some way. She hadn’t the gaunt, skeleton-like features of the Walkers he had seen, dressed in their thousands-year-old black armor and clothing, as if they were the demon counterparts to the brothers of the Night’s Watch. She was not dead like the corpses that became wights, but living. Sometimes her movements revealed her to be terrible and hideous, and yet a moment later she would appear stunningly beautiful. There was something strange and wonderful about her, a different sort of life, but life all the same. She was inhuman, yet elegant. She was dangerous.

*****

A horn blew, a horn so loud it seemed to shake both earth and sky. Jon Snow fell forward onto the black dragon’s back, and clutched at its blood red spiny scales. The sun faded and the sky turned dark, the light grey of the clouds turning the color of charcoal. The winds blew and the sky filled with snow, the air around them becoming so cold that their chests burned. His heart pounded in his chest, his stomach knotted fiercely, and blood roared in his ears.

Jon’s mind became a whirlwind. _And Joramun blew the Horn of Winter and woke giants from the earth,_ he recalled. That huge horn with its bands of old gold, incised with ancient runes…

 _“A thousand years old, that was,”_ Tormund had told him. _“We found it in a giant’s grave, and no man o’ us had ever seen a horn so big. That must have been why Mance got the notion to tell you it were Joramun’s. He wanted you crows to think he had it in his power to blow your bloody Wall down about your knees. But we never found the true horn, not for all our digging. If we had, every kneeler in your Seven Kingdoms would have chunks o’ ice to cool his wine all summer.”_

He had wondered then whether it was Mance Rayder who had lied to him, or if it was Tormund who had lied. If Mance’s horn had just been a ruse to deceive the Night’s Watch, then where was the true horn? Someone had found it, or something. The faces of his brothers flashed before his eyes, the ones he had left behind on the Wall. He thought of Dolorous Edd, pleading with him not leave them now when they had needed him more than ever. Guilt tore apart his insides.

Jon turned back and his gaze fell upon the green dragon following behind them, his massive wings stirring the icy air. “Go back!” he shouted. “Go back to Winterfell! Protect them!” At first Rhaegal hesitated, either not understanding or accepting the king’s commands. “GO!” he screamed. The green dragon then turned, circling through the sky and flying back towards the castle.

“What is happening?” the queen shouted, leaning forward to clutch the heat of Drogon’s scales.

He crawled up the dragon towards her. When he reached her side, he wrapped his arm around her to hold them both tight to Drogon’s back. “Are you ready to fight the real enemy, Daenerys? The Night King has finally come to wage war. It won’t be a war for a throne or for a kingdom, but for life itself. Are you ready to fight for your people?”

“Can the enemy be defeated?” Dany asked, shouting above the roaring wind.

He nodded. “They were defeated before.”

She moved closer, until her face was inches from his. “But what if we cannot stop them?”

“Then the entire realm will fall,” he replied, not meeting her anxious gaze.

Her brows creased with worry. Dany felt anxious about leaving Viserion behind, about not knowing what had happened to him. She felt anxious for not only herself, but for Drogon. She even worried for Rhaegal, who had once again left her, obeying Jon Snow’s command to turn around. She wished all three of her children were there with her. “Shouldn’t we go back to Winterfell?” she asked.

Swallowing against the lump in his throat, he shook his head. Jon then turned to look at Daenerys. Her violet-blue eyes were wide with fear, and her lips trembled, her silver-blonde hair blowing in the wind. “We’re going to the Wall… if it’s still there.”

He once again thought of his brothers of the Night’s Watch, and with an overwhelming sinking feeling, he suspected they were no longer of the living, but now belonged to the Night King. A memory came forward, of his last conversation with Samwell Tarly before he had left Castle Black with Gilly and her baby. He hadn’t wanted him to leave, knowing his real value as a true friend and trusted confidante. But Sam knew his place was not at the Wall, that other things had become more important.

_“If Gilly stays here, then she’ll die. And the baby that she named after me will die. And I’ll end up dying too, trying to protect them… which means that the last thing that I’ll see in this world will be the look in her eyes when I failed her. And I’d rather see a thousand White Walkers than see that.”_

Jon thought of Sansa and the child in her belly, a son or a daughter. His son, or his daughter. If he went back to Winterfell and simply waited behind its walls for the Others to come, they would all die. If the Night King were to march as far south as Winterfell, adding thousands of dead to his host as cold and death spread over the land, there would be no stopping him. The fallen dead inside the castle’s walls, either from battle, starvation, or sickness, would simply rise again as his wights. They would swarm Winterfell, from inside and out. No one would survive. The Night King had to be stopped long before he could reach Sansa and Arya and all those he loved.

*****

Sam and Alleras walked through the open gates of the castle Starfall that led to the island’s dirt road, and made their way down to the _Seastrider_ , docked on the shoreline. Once aboard, they soon found the captain.

“Where is the ship going from here?” asked Alleras.

“Well, we sure ain’t going back to Oldtown,” the captain answered. “Not yet, anyway. We’re heading for the Planky Town, then to Tyrosh across the sea and north to Braavos. We then head back to Westeros.”

Alleras thought for a moment. “On the return to Westeros, will the ship by any chance be going to the North?”

Grinning, the captain nodded. “Aye. When we depart Braavos, we will cross the sea and sail around the Fingers of the Vale to Sisterton, and then we will travel to White Harbor, if the winter weather allows. Once we’ve finished trading in White Harbor, we’ll return to Oldtown, with stops along the way at Gulltown, Duskendale, and Maidenpool in the Riverlands.”

Sam glanced between his friend and the ship’s captain. The trading vessel’s journey would take months. But traveling by land would not be much faster. The ship would no doubt be safer as well, especially with Gilly and the baby. What was he to do about them? They would be safe in Starfall, and he had little doubt that the young lord, Ned Dayne, would take good care of them. But Gilly would never stand to be left behind, even if it was in her best interests.

“Are you looking for passage north?” the captain asked. “Do you require any more side trips? Do you wish to make a stop at your home? I hear there’s been quite some excitement there lately. Or perhaps King’s Landing?” He smirked.

Alleras pursed his lips, and gave him a sarcastic look. “I never want to set foot in the capital as long as there’s a Lannister on the throne. I have no wish to see Sunspear right now, either.” He paused, sighing. “We need to reach Winterfell. If White Harbor is as far north as you can get us, then that is agreeable.”

The captain smiled. “We’d be happy to have you. She’s a clean ship, ‘Strider, as you’ve seen on the journey here. There’s not as many rats as others, and we’ll have fresh eggs and butter aboard as well as fresh fruit once we dock in Tyrosh. We’ll have lemons and oranges from Lys and Myr, even pomegranates.” He then smirked at Alleras. “Of course, you’re no stranger to those fruits, being from Dorne and all. Well… our travel north should be quite comfortable, if you’d like to come along. But I can’t speak for the weather once we sail into the Bite. We might get some rough waters when we approach White Harbor.”

Having secured passage to White Harbor on the _Seastrider_ , its captain informing them they’d be departing at dawn, the two friends returned to the white stone walls and towers of the castle. They climbed the stone steps in the tower that housed the guest quarters and entered Sam’s bedchamber. Gilly was inside and Little Sam was asleep on the bed. They then took to sitting around a small table with a stack of books they had borrowed from the castle’s library, reading and discussing for several hours.

“So your home is in Sunspear?” asked Sam as he leaned back in his chair, closing the cover of a leather-bound book.

“Yes,” Alleras answered. “I left well over a year ago, after my father died. I had planned on returning when I finished my studies, but my family and the other people there want war with Queen Cersei. Two Dornish hosts have massed in the two passes through the Red Mountains. The hosts sit encamped as we speak, waiting for Princess Arianne to loose them on the enemies of House Martell. Or so I was told in the letters I’ve received from my sisters. They want me to come home, to take up their fight, but after what they did…”

Gilly looked up from her book. “Why do they want war with Cersei?”

“Everyone in Dorne hates the Lannisters, for what they did to Princess Elia and her children, for supporting the Usurper’s war against the throne.”

“So, the people of Dorne were loyal to the Targaryens?”  Sam asked.

“Yes, they were,” said Alleras. “And still are. There is a long-standing hatred between the Lannisters and House Martell of Dorne. About ten years before the War of the Usurper, Prince Oberyn and Princess Elia Martell travelled with their mother to Casterly Rock to visit Joanna Lannister. Their mother hoped that the Martell and Lannister children would marry. When they arrived, Joanna had just died giving birth to Tyrion Lannister. Lord Tywin Lannister then slighted the Martells shamefully, ignoring them for a few weeks until finally offering Princess Elia a betrothal to the dwarf baby. This enraged the Martells. So instead of marrying Jaime Lannister, Princess Elia wed Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, which was a slight to Tywin who had hoped to marry Cersei to Rhaegar.”

Sam thought for a moment. “But Prince Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark…”

Alleras nodded. “When Rhaegar won the tourney at Harrenhal, he named Lyanna Stark the Queen of Love and Beauty, not Princess Elia. A year later, he ran off with Lyanna. The northerners believe he kidnapped and raped her, but my father told me that Rhaegar was a good man. He would never have done such a thing. The Martells were unhappy with Rhaegar’s betrayal of Princess Elia, but they still supported King Aerys. He’d sent his own wife and son to Dragonstone to keep them safe, but the Mad King held Princess Elia and her children hostage in the Red Keep. The Martells lost many soldiers at the Battle of the Trident, including Prince Lewyn of the Kingsguard. During the Sack of King’s Landing, Princess Elia and her children were brutally murdered by Lannister knights. Ser Gregor Clegane was one of them.”

He sighed, pausing for a moment before continuing. “Prince Oberyn wanted to continue the war in the name of Viserys Targaryen, but the new Hand of the King, Jon Arryn, traveled to Sunspear with the bones of Lewyn Martell and achieved diplomacy with Prince Doran Martell. House Martell swore fealty to Robert Baratheon, but they never stopped hating the Lannisters. And they never stopped being loyal to the Targaryens. Prince Doran had planned to send his daughter and heir, Princess Arianne, to Tyrosh so she could secretly meet the exiled Viserys Targaryen, to whom she had been secretly betrothed. But when his wife Mellario threatened to kill herself if their daughter was sent away, he kept Arianne in Dorne.”

“How do you know all this?” asked Gilly, eyes wide.

“One learns a lot when growing up in Sunspear,” he replied, winking. “And one of my links is copper, for history.” The acolyte lifted his chain of four metal links from his belt. “There’s also pale steel for smithing, iron for warcraft, and Valyrian steel for magic and the occult. Only one in one hundred has a link of Valyrian steel, as the study of magic is looked down upon by most maesters. But Marwyn is an exceptional fellow, and I’ve learned a lot from him.”

Sam looked down at the open book in front of him. “Dorne’s loyalty to the Targaryens, especially House Dayne, will be useful if we’re going to convince Lord Edric of all this.” He gave a quick nod of his head, directed at the books on the table.

Alleras smiled his soft smile. “Ned Dayne is a believer. We just need to separate him from his maester.” His smile faded. “Myles said Lord Stark arrived in Starfall with an infant babe, and yet never corrected Ned when he’d said Wylla was Jon Snow’s mother. The maester knew that couldn’t be the truth, but didn’t say so. He must have had his own suspicions of who the baby belonged to.”

“As a maester from the Citadel, perhaps he chose to close his eyes to the truth and just accept Lord Stark’s word that the child was his bastard,” said Sam. “From what Marwyn said, the maesters did not truly support Targaryen rule, at least toward the end.”

“And if the maester had told the Citadel the truth or even sent word to King Robert about Lord Stark’s bastard…,” He paused, thinking it over. “Myles may have turned a blind eye to the obvious truth in an attempt to secure peace for the realm, so that the war would end. A war against the Starks is a war no one wants. Or perhaps the castle was in such shock with Lady Ashara’s death, that the maester might not have put the pieces together until much later. And who knows what Wylla told the household when she returned from Winterfell? She clearly didn’t tell anyone the truth.”

Sam shrugged. “Perhaps Lord Stark put her on strict orders never to speak of it.”

Gilly looked over at her sleeping son. “Or maybe she simply wanted no harm to ever come to Jon Snow, the babe she’d nursed and cared for, and so she kept his secret for the rest of her life.”

Alleras glanced between Sam and Gilly, watched the man of the Night’s Watch gaze at her tenderly. “You two will be the ones to convince Ned.”

“I thought _you_ were going to explain it to him,” replied Sam, eyes widening.

“No.” He shook his head. “I do not know Jon Snow. _You do._ You know him, and you love him. Only you can convince Ned Dayne to help him. I will keep Maester Myles distracted.” He paused, and then his voice hardened. “If for some reason Ned Dayne seems hesitant, remind him that House Martell remains his overlord and Dorne is going to back the Targaryens in the wars to come. The Lord of Starfall will be required to do his part.”

There was something fierce about his expression and the tone of his voice that Sam had never seen before. While the half-Dornish acolyte had been nothing but good-natured and cheerful, with an easy smile, in the time he’d known him, he now suspected that Alleras was someone no one would want to cross.

At the welcoming feast within Starfall’s feast hall, they dined on fish with lemon slices, olives, and peppers stuffed with cheese. One of the castle’s cooks hailed from the city of Volantis, and a cold Volantene soup made from sweet beets was served as well, as rich and thick as purple honey. There were also platters of figs and dates, and flagons of sweet red Dornish wine adorning the long tables. Musicians played and singers filled the hall with song.

Three hours into the feast, Sam and Gilly departed the hall with Ned Dayne, walking about the castle and heading in the direction of the library. They passed portraits hung up on the stone walls, of lords and ladies of House Dayne. Unlike their fellow countrymen in the eastern desert region of Dorne, the Daynes of the Red Mountains had fair skin. Some had pale blond hair, while others had dark brown, but they all had eyes that were either dark blue or purple. They soon stood in front of a portrait of the Lady Ashara.

“She was a great beauty,” said Gilly as she gazed over the lady’s long dark hair and haunting violet eyes.

“Yes, she was,” Ned replied. “My aunt Lady Allyria said that many men in King’s Landing were infatuated with her, those in the royal court and even members of the Kingsguard. But of course, knights of the Kingsguard swear a vow similar to the black knights of the Wall. They are sworn for life and are forbidden from owning land, taking wives, or fathering children.”

Sam reddened, his stomach knotting with guilt as Ned glanced between him and Gilly. But the young lord only smiled. “Of course, not all live up to that particular vow. My aunt once said that even the bravest and most loyal knights of the realm desire love and fatherhood, vow or no vow.”

Gilly smiled, and then stared up at a portrait of Arthur Dayne, clad in bright armor with the greatsword Dawn at his side. “Are the Kingsguard truly the finest knights in all the Seven Kingdoms?” she asked.

“Not anymore,” answered Ned. “But once they were a marvel to behold, a shining lesson to the world. But the days when Ser Ryam Redwyne and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and my uncle Ser Arthur wore the white armor and cloaks are gone. Lady Allyria says the Kingsguard has become a disgrace, just like the wicked queen they serve. She says the day the Usurper sat on the throne was the end of the true Kingsguard. Ser Barristan Selmy, who served King Aerys alongside my uncle, remained, but the rest were snakes and vermin, especially Jaime Lannister, who sullied the white cloak beyond all repair.” He sighed, staring up at Arthur Dayne’s portrait. “If only Prince Rhaegar had returned from the Battle of the Trident, and not Robert Baratheon. He was a monster, who climbed onto the Iron Throne over the corpses of innocent children.”

Sam’s gaze met Gilly’s, and she nudged him with her elbow, eyeing him pointedly. He nodded.

Inside the feast hall, Alleras had been busy pouring wine into the cup of Maester Myles, who had drunk several large goblets full. “So, maester, you were saying that Lord Stark had arrived in Starfall with an infant?”

The man in grey robes nodded, taking a gulp of his sweet red wine. “Yes.”

“And who else was with him?”

“No one,” answered Myles. “He was alone. Just him and the babe.”

Alleras drummed his fingers on the table. “Howland Reed of the Neck wasn’t with him? They were the only two survivors of the battle at the Tower of Joy.”

Shaking his head, the maester set his cup down. “Yes, I have also heard the telling of the events at the Tower of Joy, and I know that a crannogman named Howland Reed was with Lord Eddard, but no Howland Reed ever came to Starfall. No man or woman accompanied Lord Stark here to the castle. He rode through the gates atop his horse alone, with an infant wrapped in linen strapped to his chest.”

“Lord Edric Dayne says that his wet nurse, Wylla, was Jon Snow’s mother,” he said.

“And so did Wylla herself, when she returned home to Starfall. She wanted to stay with the child in Winterfell, but Lady Stark would have none of it. She wanted the bastard child gone as well, but nothing she could do or say could make Lord Stark change his mind. He didn’t want to send Wylla back to Dorne either, but he did so to appease his lady wife. She was pregnant at the time, I believe with their second, the Lady Sansa.”

Pouring more wine into the maester’s goblet, Alleras continued his questioning. “But how did Lord Stark get Wylla with child, if he had only come to Starfall that once, to deliver Dawn to House Dayne?”

Myles hesitated, pausing as he took a sip of wine. “Who knows? Things happen during wartime. It is all chaos and bloodshed, fear and hysteria.”

“What of the stillborn daughter borne by the Lady Ashara? Was Lord Stark the father?”

“Now, that is just talk, and no proof of that exists,” replied the maester. “Lady Ashara never spoke of it upon her return to Starfall. But following her death, the Lady Allyria said her sister had a child while serving as a lady-in-waiting to Princess Elia in Dragonstone. I have also heard that the story is widely accepted as truth in King’s Landing. Some believe Lady Ashara to be the mother of Jon Snow, while others hold to the stillborn daughter version of the tale. I have heard that Ser Barristan Selmy, formerly of the Kingsguard, regarded the birth of the stillborn daughter as true, and that man was as honest and honorable as any man that ever lived.”

He paused to take another drink, emptying his goblet. “But as for whom the child’s father was… Yes, many say that it was Lord Stark, but there were many men within King’s Landing who had their eyes on Lady Ashara, and they would have had more opportunities to win her affections than Lord Eddard ever had. As far as I know, Lord Stark and Lady Ashara only interacted at the Tourney of Harrenhal, in the spring of 281. Secret courtships are not uncommon, however, especially among the royal court. It is possible that she is the mother of Jon Snow. It is possible that Lord Stark was the father of her daughter who died. For all I know, both could be true. Apparently she gave birth to the stillborn in late 281, around the coming of the new year. When Lord Stark arrived in Starfall in 283, Jon Snow was a newborn. She could have been the mother of both, but who can truly know? All those who could answer these questions are long dead.”

Alleras merely nodded, and poured more wine into the maester’s cup as he watched Sam and Gilly stand up at the other end of the table and leave the feast hall with the young Lord Dayne. “What do you know of Prince Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark during this time?”

“Well, as the year 281 drew to a close, winter returned to Westeros with a vengeance. On the last day of the year, snow began to fall upon King's Landing. The snowfall continued off and on for a fortnight. Blackwater Bay was frozen, and icicles hung from the roofs of every tower in the capital. King Aerys turned to his alchemists, commanding them to drive the cold off with their magic. Huge green fires burned along the walls of the Red Keep for a month.”

Myles sighed, his lids becoming heavy, and he leaned back in his chair. “Prince Rhaegar was not in the city when the wildfire kept the castle warm. Nor could he be found with his wife, Princess Elia, and their two children. Unbeknownst to nearly everyone, with the coming of the new year, the crown prince had left Dragonstone and rode off with half a dozen of his closest friends, including Ser Arthur Dayne. He eventually appeared in the Riverlands. Not ten leagues from Harrenhal, where he had placed the crown of blue roses on her lap at the tourney, Rhaegar came across Lyanna Stark of Winterfell and carried her off. It was the ruin of House Targaryen. It lit a fire that consumed his house and family and all those he loved, not to mention half the realm.” He yawned. “And the Citadel… the Citadel was happy to support Robert Baratheon, and began actively repairing a realm that had been nearly destroyed by Targaryen madness.”

The acolyte pursed his lips, watching the maester’s eyes drift closed. “Do you think Prince Rhaegar just happened across Lyanna Stark by chance, or is it more likely that this meeting in the Riverlands had been arranged?”

But Maester Myles only snored in reply. Sighing, Alleras stood up from the table and left the feast hall, going in search of Sam, Gilly, and Ned. He found them in the library, as expected. The shelves and tables were painted white. Patterned carpets the color of lilac covered the white marble floor. On the walls were priceless tapestries, ancient and faded, depicting the glory of House Dayne’s ancestral sword Dawn. The largest of them, and clearly the oldest, showed a gallant knight surrounded by darkness, plunging the greatsword into an enemy, its body ablaze with flames. Tall silver candlesticks holding beeswax candles filled the library with ample light, ample enough for the three companions sitting around a large table, conversing over several open books.

They all looked up as he approached. “Do you also believe Jon Snow is the prince that was promised?” asked Ned by way of greeting. “Only a knight of House Dayne can wield Dawn.”

Alleras sat down at the table with them, continuing to gaze at the old, much faded tapestry on the white stone wall. “That is just a tradition of men. The gods may say different.” He looked over at his friend. “Did you tell him the story about Azor Ahai and Lightbringer?”

“Yes,” answered Sam. “But some of it still doesn’t make much sense.”

“If Jon Snow is the last hero reborn, then how?” Ned asked. “He wasn’t born amidst salt and smoke. You say he was most likely born in the Tower of Joy.”

The acolyte chewed on his lip thinking. “Azor Ahai and the last hero reborn, and the prince that was promised are two different prophecies. They might point to the same thing. But just because that red priestess who showed up at the Wall said the last hero reborn and the prince that was promised are one and the same does not make her right.” He sighed, but then turned his gaze from the tapestry. “What is the point of the last hero during the Long Night? What was his purpose?”

Sam shook his head, shrugging. “Well… to defeat the White Walkers.”

“Yes, but he didn’t fight alone. There were those who fought beside him, using dragonglass blades. What was it that made the last hero so special?”

“He forged the hero’s sword,” Gilly answered.

Alleras drummed his fingers on the table. “And what is the purpose of the prince that was promised? What is the point of the story about Azor Ahai reborn?”

She glanced down at one of the books on the table. “To forge Lightbringer and save the world.”

Nodding, the acolyte turned back to look at the tapestry. “But will the prince that was promised, or the last hero reborn, actually need to forge a hero’s sword?”

Also turning to stare at the ancient fabric hanging upon the wall, Sam furrowed his brows, thinking. “No… because it already exists.” He turned back to the table, and pulled a book closer to him. “The prophecy of Azor Ahai was too ridiculous to be real, but what if it means something else? If we strip away the more fabricated elements, the point of the story remains. He attempts to forge Lightbringer twice, failing, but on the third try he succeeds.”

“But we can’t take that literally,” said Alleras. “The sword was already forged thousands of years ago.”

“So then what is Azor Ahai’s prophesied Lightbringer, this burning sword that is going to save the world?” Ned asked.

Sam stared at them pointedly, his eyes widening. _“Who_ is Lightbringer?” His gaze fell on his friend who had come with him from Oldtown. “You said it yourself that the tale of Azor Ahai stabbing Nissa Nissa with his sword was an indirect substitution for, well…” His face reddened.

Alleras grinned. “Fucking?” His humorous expression faded to one of dawning realization. “What if Prince Rhaegar had been right the first time?”

“Right about what?” asked Ned.

“He had first believed himself to be the prince that was promised, but then decided that his son Aegon must be the one,” Sam replied.

Gilly again looked down at the book in front of her. “What would have made Prince Rhaegar believe the prophecy was about him?”

Alleras started to recite the prophecy. _“A prince will be born amidst smoke and salt, beneath a bleeding star.”_

“There was a great tragedy when Prince Rhaegar was born,” Sam told her.

Ned stood up from the table and crossed over to a shelf, lifting a history book and bringing it back. He turned to the pages he was looking for, and started to read. “The last years of Aegon V Targaryen’s reign were consumed by a search for ancient lore about the dragon breeding of Valyria, and it was said that Aegon commissioned journeys to places as far away as Asshai with the hopes of finding texts and knowledge that had not been preserved in Westeros. What became of the dream of dragons was a grievous tragedy born in a moment of joy.

“In the fateful year 259 AC, the king summoned many of those closest to him to Summerhall, a pleasure castle in the Dornish Marches favored by House Targaryen, to celebrate the impending birth of his first great-grandchild to his grandson Aerys and granddaughter Rhaella, the children of his son Prince Jaehaerys. A fire broke out inside the castle, and the conflagration caused the deaths of, among others, King Aegon V Targaryen, his eldest son, Prince Duncan Targaryen, and Ser Duncan the Tall, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Many died, and the fire destroyed the castle, leaving it a ruin.

“It is unfortunate that the tragedy that transpired at Summerhall left very few witnesses alive, and those who survived would not speak of it. A tantalizing page of Archmaester Gyldayn's history – surely one of the very last written before his own death – hints at much, but the ink that was spilled over it in some mishap blotted out too much.

‘...the blood of the dragon gathered in one...  
...seven eggs, to honor the seven gods, though the king’s own septon had warned...  
...pyromancers...  
...wild fire...  
...flames grew out of control...towering...burned so hot that...  
...died, but for the valor of the Lord Comman...’

“The cause of the fire is as yet unknown, but it seems to have been connected with King Aegon’s desire to restore dragons to the Seven Kingdoms. But amongst the flames and grief-stricken survivors, Princess Rhaella gave birth to a son, Rhaegar, the first child of Aerys II Targaryen. Later on, it became Prince Rhaegar Targaryen’s habit to visit Summerhall alone, without even the Kingsguard, and sleep under the stars in the ruined castle. Whenever he returned to King’s Landing, he would perform songs he had composed for his harp, sweet songs of sadness about twilight and tears and the death of kings.” Ned finished reading, and leaned back in his chair.

Sam nodded. “The smoke was from the fire that devoured Summerhall on the day of his birth, the salt from the tears shed for those who died. That had been Maester Aemon’s belief as well as Prince Rhaegar’s. He said that Rhaegar had then been persuaded to believe the promised prince must be Aegon because a comet had been seen above King’s Landing on the night his son had been conceived. He believed the bleeding star had to be a comet. But Maester Aemon believed Daenerys to be the one. He said that the error crept in from the translation because dragons are neither male nor female, they are one and then the other. As changeable as flame, he said. Everyone had been looking for a prince, including Rhaegar, but it could actually mean a princess.”

Alleras ran his fingers over his lips, thinking. “But neither Jon Snow or Daenerys Targaryen are going to forge Lightbringer, for Dawn has already been forged. Rhaegar must be the prince that was promised. His first two children, Rhaenys and Aegon, died – the swords that broke. His son with Lyanna Stark, who died bringing Jon Snow into the world, must be Lightbringer.”

Leaning over the table, Sam thought for a moment. “What about Daenerys and her three dragons? And the red comet that heralded their return?”

“But what about the dragon has three heads?” asked Gilly. “So why not both Jon Snow _and_ Daenerys Targaryen? She woke dragons from stone and has the power of dragonfire. He is the warrior who can wield the hero’s sword forged from the heart of a fallen star.” She looked up at the large tapestry on the wall. “Jon Snow needs Dawn.”

Sam, Alleras, and Ned Dayne all stared at her, lips parting and eyes widening with realization.

Hours later, while the castle slept, the three companions packed their bags quickly and quietly. It was yet an hour until sunrise, and no doubt the crew aboard the _Seastrider_ was already preparing for departure. The rooms and halls within the stronghold had grown increasingly dark, its torches and candles having dimmed or gone out in the night. Pulling her canvas sack over her shoulder, Gilly then lifted her son into her arms and stepped out into the hallway. Sam and Alleras had stepped out of their own bedchambers and were waiting for her, each carrying a bedroll under their arm and a leather bag over their shoulder.

They heard footsteps. Their breath caught and they froze. But a moment later, the pale blond head and dark blue eyes of Ned Dayne appeared. He was holding a candle in one hand and a leather bag was strapped across his chest.

“What are you doing?” whispered Alleras.

“I’m coming with you,” Ned replied. “I’ve been bored out of my mind ever since I came back to Starfall.”

Sam’s eyes went wide. “My lord, you can’t come with us!” he whispered fervently. “Not only will your whole house think we’ve stolen your ancestral sword, they’ll think we’ve also kidnapped the Lord of Starfall!”

Grinning, the young man shook his head and removed a roll of parchment from the inside of his brown traveling cloak. “Nonsense. I’ve written a letter to Maester Myles explaining everything. I’ve directed him to the books we left open in the library and to consider the utmost importance of our task.”

Heaving a sigh, Gilly pursed her lips, and gave him a look of maternal disapproval. Sam and Alleras exchanged looks. “No, absolutely not,” said the half-Dornishman.

“If Dawn is going with you, then so am I,” replied Ned firmly.

“There’s no use arguing about it,” Gilly said before Alleras or Sam could reply. “Let’s just hurry up and get out of here before everyone wakes up.”

Ned shot the other two young men a defiant look and then turned to walk alongside Gilly down the spiraling stone steps of the tower. Sam looked at his friend and shrugged in defeat, Alleras replying with a smile. They quickly followed the Lord of Starfall and his lit candle through the darkened halls until reaching the large chamber with the double doors made of redwood. The lord quietly opened the door on the right, and they followed him inside.

Darkness filled the room inside, the only light within emanating from Ned’s candle and the greatsword mounted on the wall above a stone hearth. Sam and Alleras set their bags and bedrolls on top of the long redwood table, the bedroll belonging to the brother of the Night’s Watch dropping onto the table top with a heavy thud. The white sword shone in front of the wall made of redwood paneling, emitting a soft glow. They approached the hearth, and reaching up to the sword, they felt the warmth against their palms that the white blade was giving off. Lying on the mantle was a long leather scabbard, and Alleras reached for it.

“Don’t handle the blade!” Ned whispered. “It is sharper than anything you have ever encountered in your lives. Just the slightest of touches will slice your flesh and make you bleed.”

Sam placed both hands around the silver hilt and lifted it from the wall. Turning it very carefully, he lowered the blade and sheathed it inside the scabbard held by his friend. Laying out Alleras’ bedroll on the table, the sword was set down and then rolled up inside, hiding the sword within. Ned placed his letter for Maester Myles on the mantle, and then they quickly left the room. They walked out of the Great Keep, and as they approached the main gates, the guards in the gatehouse emerged. Sam, Gilly, and Alleras exchanged anxious looks, their stomachs tightening nervously.

“Our guests are leaving on the _Seastrider_ at sunrise,” Ned called out. “I am going to escort them down to the ship.”

“Would you like a guard to accompany you, milord?”

Ned shook his head. “No, that is not needed. But thank you, Ulrick.”

The iron gates then rose, a wooden drawbridge lowering across the moat, and the four companions departed Starfall castle with a small child and two hidden greatswords, one a Valyrian steel blade a grey color as dark as smoke, the other a white blade as pale as milkglass.

*****

Bran watched from a weirwood in the haunted forest, watched and waited. Every day he would look out from the heart face of a different tree in this same grove, hoping for some sign of the brothers of the Night’s Watch. He had assumed that groups would be going out beyond the Wall on regular patrols of the forest. For nearly a week he had looked out into the world from the trees in the weirwood grove, day and night, and yet had seen no sign of the Night’s Watch. No doubt they were patrolling the Wall, searching for signs of their foes, but he’d hoped to see some of them enter the forest. He felt certain he was in the right grove, the one just north of the Nightfort castle’s Black Gate. He also felt certain that he’d come to the right place in time, the great Whitetree weirwood having yet to fail him.

The hour of the owl was approaching, and the moon would soon rise. Bran was just about to give up for the day, and return to the cave and Meera when he saw them, not ten yards away, a group of men all in black riding garrons passing through the forest in the direction of the Nightfort. He began calling out from the tree, praying to his father’s gods that someone would hear him. But one by one they all quietly rode through the trees, the sound of his voice falling on deaf ears. Several moments later he then heard it, the blast of a sentry’s horn to signal returning rangers.

He sighed deeply in his spirit, his hopes whirling away like the wind blowing through the heart tree’s red leaves. He had wanted to convey a warning message to the brothers of the Night’s Watch, but the endeavor now seemed fruitless. Bran was just about to pull away, when he saw a man had rode back and was now trotting into the weirwood grove atop a destrier as black as jet, a big and strong animal, larger than the garrons his brothers rode.

The man of the Night’s Watch dismounted his horse. He gazed about the grove, his eyes moving to and fro, glinting suspiciously at the carved faces of the weirwoods. He was a handsome man, no older than thirty years, brown-eyed and graceful and slender as a sword. He wore a supple coat of sleek black ringmail over layers of black wool and boiled leather, black leather boots, black woolen breeches, and fine gloves of black moleskin. His cloak was impressive, made of thick sable fur, black and soft.

“Is someone here?” he asked, his eyes continuing to dart among the trees.

“Yes, I am here,” Bran replied. “Inside the weirwood.”

The man turned to face the heart tree from where the voice had come from, his eyes widening. “Can you come out of the tree?”

He hesitated to answer. “Yes. But I am afraid you would not see me. Do you have the greensight?”

“Greensight?” the man said, his brows furrowing in confusion. “I do not know that word. There are men who have called me a warg, though. Is that the same?”

“No… but wargs have been known to also have the greensight,” replied Bran.

Shrugging, the ranger sighed. “How did you come to be inside this tree?”

Again, he hesitated, unsure as to how much information to give. “I’m not exactly inside _this_ tree, but I can look out through its eyes from where I am.”

“And where are you?” he asked, his mouth curving into a grin.

“Far from here.” Not wanting to waste time, he got down to his task. “Do you know the thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch?”

The man laughed. “No. He does not exist. Not yet, anyway. He soon might, I suppose. Jorel Mormont is the twelfth Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and he just had his seventy-fifth name day not too long ago. You can’t expect men to live much longer than that. Certainly not great men like Lord Mormont.”

Bran thought for a moment. “Do you know who will take his place once he dies?”

“I have little doubt that the Lord Steward will rise to the position.” He frowned. “The stewards will support Royston, of course, and the others… well, they may be too frightened to vote for someone else.”

“Frightened?”

The ranger nodded, pursing his lips. “The Lord Steward is a Bolton. And his brother is the Red King ruling from the Dreadfort. The men of the Night’s Watch would rather not make themselves an enemy of the Boltons.” He smirked.

His stomach knotted at the sound of the name Bolton. Lord Commander Dolorous Edd had told him and Meera about a letter Jon Snow had received at Castle Black from one Ramsay Bolton, of Jon’s reasons for leaving the Wall and fighting for Winterfell. Bran noticed a humorous glint in the man’s eye. “Are _you_ afraid of him?”

“Of course not. I’m a bloody Stark,” the man laughed.

“I’m a Stark as well,” he replied excitedly. “Bran Stark of Winterfell.”

“Jon Stark, pleased to meet you,” he said, grinning up at the tree, running a gloved hand through his short light brown hair. “First Ranger of the Night’s Watch. Well, I guess that makes us kin, Bran Stark.” His grin then faded, and he gave a slight frown. “I suppose Bran is short for Brandon.”

He paused, wondering at the change in the ranger’s demeanor. “Yes, Brandon. My father’s elder brother was named Brandon.”

Jon Stark chuckled darkly. “The Stark line is full of _Brandons._ My father was Brandon. My elder brother is also Brandon and is now ruling as King of Winter. I’m the youngest son of an ancient house with too many heirs. There was no glory to be had if I remained at home. I would never be king. I would never become the Lord of Winterfell. So here I am. As a sign of my selfless devotion to duty, I am honorably serving on the Wall, built by yet _another_ Brandon. Everyone remembers the Brandons.” He rolled his eyes.

“Is your brother Brandon the Breaker?” he asked.

 _“The Breaker?”_ The ranger scoffed, crossing his arms. “What is he supposed to have broken?”

Bran’s heart pounded and his stomach fluttered nervously. Maybe there would be no reason for this Brandon, King of Winter, to earn that particular identity. This was it. This was his chance to fix past wrongs. _What did any Bolton ever know o’ honor?_ Old Nan had said to him once. If Lord Steward Royston Bolton could be stopped from becoming the thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, then maybe the horrors could be erased, maybe the White Walkers would never return, and then maybe everything terrible that had happened to those he loved could also be somehow prevented.  

“I have come to give the brothers of the Night’s Watch a warning,” he said. “When the time comes to vote for the thirteenth Lord Commander, the Lord Steward must not take command.”

“Why?” asked Jon Stark, an amused expression on his face. “Not that anyone really _wants_ a Bolton to take charge of the Watch…”

He paused, wondering at just how much of the tale he should tell his kin. “If he does, he will eventually come across one of the Others, a White Walker… a woman.”

The First Ranger scoffed again. “The Others haven’t been seen in over a hundred years, not since the Wall was built.”

“The Lord Commander will make himself a king. Even now, where I am from, eight thousand years later, the Night King still rules in the lands beyond the Wall. If all else fails, he may even rule the entire realm, in the long night that never ends.”

“How can he still be living eight thousand years hence, eh?” Jon Stark shook his head in disbelief. He let out a breathy laugh. “Eight thousand years,” he muttered under his breath. “The Others are not coming back. The Starks made sure of that.”

Excited, Bran forgot his warning for a moment. “The last hero?”

The First Ranger pursed his lips, shaking his head. “Brandon Stark built the Wall, and then built Winterfell. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, so my father always said, and his father before him. You’d think the saying would be, _there must always be a Brandon Stark in Winterfell._ They’re the only Starks who are ever allowed to make a name for themselves, it seems. No one bothers to remember the others. You will too, Bran Stark, I am sure.” He frowned. “But have no fear. There is no Walker woman. The White Walkers are gone. Whatever you have heard must be an old wives’ tale.”

He could feel the frustration welling up inside him. “I have seen her here in this forest – all in white, with eyes as blue as ice. She is beautiful, and terrible, and some nights she walks about this weirwood grove alone. Together, she and the thirteenth Lord Commander will rule. It is only because of her that he gains the power to take absolute control of the Night’s Watch and then makes himself the Night’s King. You _must_ stop this from happening!”

Glancing about the trees, he replied to the one with the voice. “This… tale of the thirteenth Lord Commander, it is well known where you come from?”

“Yes. The North remembers. I think it has also been written about in books, or so Lord Commander Dolorous Edd told me. He’s the nine-hundredth-and-ninety-ninth Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

“Nine-hundredth-and-ninety-ninth? Gods be damned.” He crossed his arms, his expression contemplative. “And this Night’s King… he is still ruling? Eight thousand years later?”

Bran now started to hope that he was beginning to believe. “Yes. I’ve seen him myself. You _must_ stop Lord Steward Bolton from becoming the next Lord Commander.”

Jon Stark continued to glance about the weirwoods as the last light of day began to fade in the west, his eyes searching the darkening woods for something. “Do not worry, young Bran. He won’t be. I’ll do everything within my power to make sure he doesn’t.”

He then pulled away. The First Ranger and the grove of heart trees in the haunted forest faded and were gone and he was back inside the cavern, the pale thick roots of his weirwood throne cradling him. A torch flared to life on the wall and Bran saw Meera standing before him. They were still under the great Whitetree. He pulled up the sleeve of his tunic, revealing his forearm. He pressed his fingers to his fair skin and quickly found the dragonglass splinter, his heart immediately sinking heavily within him.

Meera stepped forward and knelt down in front of him, her green eyes full of concern. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Bran swallowed, his throat tightening. “I meddled with the past.” His heart sank again, thoughts of Hodor filling his mind, as he painfully remembered that that was the main reason for all the trouble he had caused.

*****

The huge dragon flew through the sky, black and terrible, into the face of the storm. His two riders clutched his warm spiny scales, their hands at the base of his neck, the noise of the cold wind preventing them from speaking. They rode in silence, keeping close watch on the land below, which was fast filling with snow. Soon the wolfswood faded away and revealed mountainous lands. It was not long before the forested and mountainous region gave way to the rolling plains of the Gift, which had been given to the Night’s Watch in perpetuity to aid in its support, lands then given to the wildlings when Jon Snow had allowed them passage south of the Wall.

Upon reaching the Gift, Castle Black now lay a distance of fifty leagues as the crow flies, but the dragon would cover the distance in just a fraction of the time. The land was blanketed by white, even as snow continued to fall steadily from the dark grey sky. The two riders glanced at each other, and each noticed that the other’s face looked white through the falling snow. Bending low on the dragon’s back, each watched carefully the land on either side. Drogon was put to the utmost speed possible, and was commanded to face the storm by the fierce grip of his riders. On they soared towards the Wall, the wet snow filling their eyes, the wind whistling past them with an ominous roar, the land below piling deeper and deeper with snow.

Jon and Daenerys rode fiercely into the teeth of the storm toward the Wall. The storm was momentarily increasing in violence, becoming a fearful blizzard as they flew over the flat plains of the Gift. The air was thick with falling snow, which the wind flung into the eyes of the dragon and his riders. The kingsroad had disappeared beneath a white blanket. The falling snow and the loose snow on the ground were mixed by the wind and whirled through the air with great speed.

The coldness was also rapidly increasing. The fierce wind drove through their clothing, chilling them to the bone. Their muscles cramped and their fingers became numb with cold. Their faces stung with the driving snow, their eyes were filled with it, the hot breath was blown from their nostrils and the blizzard enveloped them like a great, white swirling shroud. At any other time, with any other circumstance, Jon would have turned back, but an image of the white, dead face of Sansa, falling to the Others or their wights, nerved him to struggle on towards the Wall. Her life, and the life of their child, depended on his success.

Suddenly there was movement in the land below, a vast horde sweeping over the snow-covered ground, moving south. Wights were swarming across the Gift, countless thousands, a tide of living dead men with black hands and bright blue eyes. Dany’s own eyes widened at the sight, and she turned her shocked gaze at Jon’s grim expression. Her breathing quickened, her chest burning from the cold air, and her heart pounded beneath her ribs.

“Drogon,” she then called out loudly, all her fear forgotten. “Dracarys!”

The black dragon spread its wings wider and roared, flying lower and lower until all over the ground below wights ran and burned and died again, and the cold air was filled with smoke and fire. Still, Jon and Daenerys moved north, leaving thousands of burning corpses behind. He kept a watchful eye on the land below, searching for the White Walkers and their king. He suspected their pattern was to send the wights swarming first and then arrive behind, like the events of Hardhome.

Every few minutes, Drogon would dive lower again, sending another group of swarming wights ablaze with dragonfire. Jon watched them burn, saw the flames engulf them as they fell, but there were countless more behind them. For a moment he felt a twinge of doubt, wondering whether he truly should have sent Rhaegal away. But then he immediately became bolstered, knowing the green dragon would protect the walls of Winterfell, would instinctively protect his lair from an invasion of the dead.

The village of Mole’s Town finally came into view as the moon rose high in the sky, its light brightening the landscape below. Following the Battle of Castle Black, Jon had learned that the village had been deserted. He knew of some free folk who had taken refuge in the underground tunnels. Three-quarters of the village had lain beneath ground in deep warm cellars connected by a maze of tunnels. The brothel where some brothers of the Night’s Watch would go to dig for buried treasure was located in the cellars, but he doubted anyone remained in the village now, above or below ground.

The kingsroad went right through the heart of Mole’s Town, the abandoned village standing on both sides of the road. All was still as they approached, silent and snow-covered. A shadow then emerged from the dark of the village, walking out along where the kingsroad would have been. It was tall and gaunt and hard as old bones, with flesh as white as new-fallen snow. Its armor was as black as shadow, and centuries old, and a sword with an icy blade was in its hand. The wind suddenly stopped, but the air grew bitterly cold.

“It’s a White Walker, Daenerys. Do it. Command Drogon.”

She tore her gaze from the horrible figure below and looked at Jon. She swallowed, and then nodded. With her hands on Drogon’s neck, she bid him to continue flying in the direction of the village. The Walker looked up into the sky as they approached, standing still as the black dragon came closer. Jon and Dany both gripped the spiny blood red scales as they sat atop his back, looking down upon the enemy.

“Dracarys!” she sang out, staring down at the White Walker. “Dracarys!”

The black dragon roared and fire erupted from between its jaws. As the flames hit their target, a screech so shrill and sharp filled the air that Jon and Dany fell forward onto the dragon’s back, with their hands over their muffled ears. When they opened their eyes the Walker’s black armor and clothing had burned away, and pale blue blood was running down its chest and legs in rivulets, hissing and steaming. They stared, eyes wide as the Other shrank and melted, dissolving away into a puddle. In a matter of moments its pale flesh was gone, whirling away in a fine white mist. All that remained were bones like milkglass, white and shiny, but they were suddenly melting too.

As the dragon flew over Mole’s Town, Dany looked at him with a surprised smile spreading across her face, and Jon felt something like triumph well up inside him when his eyes met hers. He looked down at the village below, but saw no other sign of the White Walkers. His stomach then knotted again, wondering why the Other had been alone, wondering where the rest of them were. The shriek that had pierced the air when the Walker had been drenched in dragonfire had been so loud, that it had to have been heard for miles around.

When they reached the northern border of the abandoned village, leaving it behind, Dany turned to glance over her shoulder, her silver-blonde hair dancing in the wind. Her stomach bottomed out as her heart lurched. A pair of bright, ice blue eyes met her violet ones, and held, both transfixed. Around his white head, it looked as though the shape of a crown had protruded from his skull. Breathing hard, she tore her bewitched gaze from his.

“What is it?” Jon asked. “Did you see more of them?”

“I…” She had turned back to look again, but the blue-eyed king was gone. Maybe she had just imagined it. Maybe it was just an image from her nightmares, coming back to haunt her, to frighten her. Maybe the blue-eyed king hadn’t been there at all. “I don’t know. There is nothing there.” Dany tried to tell herself that he wasn’t real, that he was just a scary figure from her dreams. But a knot of dread tightened in the pit of her stomach.

Jon also turned to look back at the village, but once again saw no other sign of the White Walkers. “We make for the Wall,” he said. “It’s not far from here.”

The Night King had ruled the Wall once before. If the Night’s Watch had once again become enslaved, then he had to find a way to save them. He felt confident that the dragon could. Yet when they reached the place where the Wall should be, to his horror, all they found was a tumbledown mass, boulders of ice and snow strewn across the land as far as the eye could see. Castle Black had been decimated, and no doubt lay beneath the boulders. Tears filled Jon’s eyes and froze there.

They flew over the tumbledown Wall, and he could see the tree line of the haunted forest. At that moment, they felt the impact as something struck Drogon’s belly, the black dragon instantly roaring in pain and fury. Jon looked down below, his eyes widening. The White Walkers were prowling across the ground, swords in hand, their eyes looking up at them. Another sudden impact, and the black dragon lurched, roaring. Flames shot through the icy air.

“Drogon,” shouted Dany, as she and Jon desperately clung to his scaled back as he dropped lower in the night sky.

Half a heartbeat later, something ice cold and sharp ripped through the dragon’s wing, the other having been damaged from Rhaegal’s attack earlier. Drogon screamed. Beating his great wings, one torn and ripped all the way to the thick bone, they hurtled towards the ground with great speed, trailing fire and smoke as they plummeted. With a powerful crash, they landed somewhere in the haunted forest, the riders flying from the dragon’s back as he skidded across the ground, a mass of trees rushing by them as they tumbled through the snow.

Jon stood up, his body aching, and reached for Longclaw, but his hands found no purchase. The belt had ripped from his waist. In a panic, he began scanning the ground for his sword. Breathing then became hard, and the air was so cold it burned his chest. But then the black dragon began roaring, flames engulfing the trees. With wide eyes, Jon saw Daenerys getting to her feet several yards away.   

Dany saw Drogon’s tail lashing about the trees, his roars of pain stabbing at her heart. The White Walkers were also approaching him from the other side, and she watched them dodge the dragonfire with movement quick as lightning. The dragon tore through the trees after them, constantly turning, his tail lashing like a giant serpent, fire erupting from between his jaws.

White knives like spears of ice plunged into Drogon’s back, wobbling as the dragon beat his broken wings. Smoke rose from his wounds. Dany saw one of the ice spears burst into sudden flame. Another was shaken loose by the beating of his wings. As the Others closed in, the dragon spat fire, bathing two of them in black flame, their piercing shrieks filling the air as they burned. Another attacker stabbed at his eyes until the dragon caught him in his jaws and ripped him in half. Smoke rose between his teeth and his blood smoked as it dripped onto the ground. The dragon beat his wings again, sending up a choking storm of scarlet snow.

Dany stumbled away from the red cloud, coughing, her chest burning from the cold. Drogon roared. His eyes were molten. When his mouth opened, his teeth were a fence of black knives and fire shot past them. A furnace wind engulfed the White Walkers, but they again dodged the flames. The Others suddenly were behind the dragon, coming for her. She screamed for Drogon and tried to run, but their cold hands laid hold of her.

There was no time to even think or pray to his father’s gods, there was no time to freeze with fear. Jon frantically searched for his sword, and when he finally laid eyes on the black hilt with the wolf’s head made of pale stone with eyes of red garnet, relief flooded his insides. He made to walk through the trees towards it, but Drogon continued to lash about, his movements frenzied and angry as he defended Daenerys from the Others. The dragon then came down hard on the sword, a sharp snapping sound ringing through the air, before moving away towards their attackers.

Jon’s anguished wail made a white mist of breath in the night air. He scrambled towards the sword, and when he lifted Longclaw from the ground, only the hilt remained intact. The blade was shattered, Valyrian steel shards sinking to the bottom of the leather scabbard. Dany was still several yards away through the trees, shouting for Drogon while two White Walkers pinned her to the ground with their hands, and she then turned a fearful gaze on him.  “Jon!” she screamed, her tears freezing upon her cheeks.

Panic filled his guts, and all his hopes now rested on the black dragon, broken and wounded. He glanced over at Daenerys, but the Walkers had not harmed her. They were merely keeping her locked to the ground, preventing her from running away. Why didn’t they just kill her, and turn her into one of their wights? Why keep her alive?

And then from the dark of the wood, a shadow came forward. Jon’s eyes widened and his heart pounded, his chest filling with fear. In the Night King’s hand was a longsword, yet no human metal had been used to forge that blade. It was alive with moonlight, a shard of translucent crystal so thin that it almost vanished when turned on its edge. There was a faint blue shimmer to the blade, a ghost-light playing around its icy edges.

Jon backed away, his throat tightening, Longclaw’s useless hilt still in his hand.

Dany struggled against the cold hands of the Others, unable to free herself. If she died there, would the Dothraki horse god part the grass and claim her for his khalasar in the sky, so she could ride the nightlands with her sun-and-stars? Or would the angry gods of the Seven send their harpies to seize her soul and drag her down to hell? “Drogon!” she screamed again. “Dracarys!”

The black dragon’s tail lashed, burning trees falling to the snowy ground. He roared, his breath alone hot enough to blister skin. He opened his massive jaws and fire shot out at her attackers. The White Walkers holding her down shrieked as dragonfire hit them, and their black armor burned away. The Night King turned his gaze from Jon and stared as the fire engulfed them as well as Daenerys. But while the shrill sounds of the Others pierced the air and their bodies began to melt, the fire had only burned away her cloak and gown of white wool. Elsewise the fire had not seemed to touch her. The Night King stared, his gaze transfixed by her.

Drogon then turned, its molten eyes falling on the Night King. He roared, flames erupting, and Jon watched as the dragon came towards the Great Other. When the fire brushed the blue-white blade of the sword, a screech stabbed his ears sharp as a needle. As the black dragon went after the Night King, Jon ran through the trees until he reached Daenerys. All about her nude body were melted puddles of what had once been White Walkers.

“I’m cold,” she whispered, her lips trembling, her breath ragged.

Jon lifted her into his arms, the wolf head hilt still in his hand, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. He then saw figures moving in the distance, beyond the roaring dragon, and coming fast through the trees. Wights. Eyes widening, he turned and ran, racing through the forest. He then felt it. He felt its power. His blood was singing with it.

“I know where we are,” he said, his voice a mixture of panic and relief. “I know where we are.”

He raced through the wood, the sound of their pursuers growing louder, Drogon still roaring loudly somewhere behind. As Jon ran towards the source of the power he felt, he glimpsed the wights running almost parallel with them several yards away. Daenerys screamed when she saw what was chasing after them. There were a dozen of them, maybe a score or more. Some had been wildlings once, and still wore their skins and hides, but some were those he recognized. Jon saw Mully, Toad, Jeren, Halder, Albett, Satin. And one that looked like Dolorous Edd, but it was hard to tell for certain with half his head gone. He’d failed them all. His brothers. His poor brothers.

The wights were almost on them. Jon could feel the power surging through his veins, and he knew they had to be close. He then ran through the tree line and into a clearing. The massive weirwood loomed ahead of them. The tumbledown shacks of the abandoned wildling village remained empty. He heard the dark red leaves of the weirwood rustling, as if whispering to one another. The moonlight itself seemed to stir, and the trees groaned.

Ravens had flocked to the weirwood. There were hundreds of them, thousands even, perched on the white branches. Their beaks opened as they screamed, and he saw them spread their wings and fly towards the tree line. Shrieking, they descended on the wights in angry black clouds, defending the clearing. They covered the wights like flies. They swarmed round Toad’s face and pecked at his inhumanly blue eyes and plucked the dead flesh from inside Edd’s shattered skull. There were so many ravens that when Jon looked up into the sky, he couldn’t see the moon.  

As he frantically moved towards the great weirwood, Drogon’s roars of pain and fury filled the night air, and Dany cried, screaming her dragon’s name. The haunted forest was ablaze with dragonfire. Looking up at the heart tree, Jon saw the large, open hollow of its mouth. His heart pounding, when they reached the thick pale roots of the tree, he set Daenerys down and shoved the hilt inside the waist of his woolen breeches.

“Climb,” he told her. “Up to the hollow. Quickly! Go!”

Dany climbed, her bare feet touching the tree’s white roots, her tears freezing upon her cheeks as they fell from her eyes. Her hands then reached for the hollow’s jagged wooden teeth, and she pulled herself up. Jon’s hands were at her waist, lifting her to the hollow. She crawled inside of it, and he came up after her. Dragon roars and raven shrieks filled the air outside the weirwood. When they were both inside the hollow, he found it larger than expected, and that they could move even farther into the tree than he had guessed. He slid further back, until his feet found a ledge. He shifted, and peered down.

“I think there is tunnel here,” he said, surprise registering in his voice.

But Dany did not respond, and merely curled up, Drogon continuing to roar painfully in the forest. Jon reached for her and pulled her towards him. “You will freeze if we stay in the hollow. Let’s move deeper into the tree.”

With his arm around her waist, he brought her to the ledge, and then they moved slowly down the tunnel, thankful that it wasn’t a steep descent. Their feet soon hit hard-packed soil, and Jon found he could stand up. “I think we are in a cave,” he said, placing his hand on a wall. His eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness, and he saw the tunnel divided into two branches, both black as pitch.

Suddenly everything was silent. The ravens were no longer shrieking. The black dragon was no longer roaring. All was quiet, and still.

“No,” Dany cried. “No…” Tears began streaming down her face. “Drogon,” she sobbed. She crumpled to the ground and then started to weep bitterly.

Feeling saddened and helpless, Jon lifted her into his arms and then sat down on the cave floor. Curling up in his lap, she cried into his shoulder, he removed his black fur-lined cloak and then draped it over them. She gave a shuddering breath. “Deep down, all I’ve ever really wanted was to go home to Braavos,” she choked. “To the big stone house with the red door, and the lemon tree outside my window. It was the only place I was ever happy.”

Jon then thought of Arya and Sansa and the child in her belly, his heart breaking. He had no sword and no dragon. There was nothing he could do now. He thought of Winterfell, and hoped its walls and Rhaegal would be enough to save them.


	31. The Watchers On The Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'Men forget. Only the trees remember.' His voice was so soft that Bran had to strain to hear.
> 
> 'Most of him has gone into the tree,' explained the singer Meera called Leaf. 'He has lived beyond his mortal span, and yet he lingers. For us, for you, for the realms of men. Only a little strength remains in his flesh. He has a thousand eyes and one, but there is much to watch. One day you will know.'" - A Dance with Dragons, Bran III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains sexually explicit material.
> 
> Sorry for such a long wait. The weeks leading up to the election here in the US, and the election itself, dragged me down into an emotional funk. When real life becomes scarier and more bizarre than fiction, it's difficult to be creative. Thank you all for your patience! Even though this chapter isn't as long or as action-packed as some of the others, and it mainly serves to set up what happens in the next one, I hope this chapter was worth the wait. I needed to break through my block and get the creative juices flowing. This chapter was a step in that direction. As of right now, there will be 35 total chapters to this fic. The remaining chapters have been planned and outlined.
> 
> Sidenote: My personal stance is to remain staunchly spoiler-free when it comes to GoT. I am aware that some spoilers appeared on Reddit by a user who claims to "troll the entire universe." So, take that for what it's worth.

He was running through the woods with his new-found brothers and sisters, with his pack. The wolf felt the chill of the cold air, despite the thick warmth of his fur, but he could run faster and jump higher. He could hear better and see farther and smell stronger. His senses were keener inside the direwolf, and surpassed anything Jon could ever achieve in his own body. Ghost even seemed to feel more alive when joined with him, welcoming the union. _He is me, and I am him, and we are one. He feels what I feel, I feel what he feels._ And right now, moving through the trees of the forest, they felt hungry.

Jon could sense the direwolf sniffing after the elk, wondering if he could find the great beast. The pack had been hunting the elk for the greater part of the day. Ghost could sense the warm blood flowing beneath the elk’s hide. Just the smell was enough to make his jaws drool, and when it did Jon’s mouth watered at the thought of the elk’s hot, sweet blood and rich, dark meat. The cold wind was blowing, so the elk’s scent was difficult for the pack to follow. Ghost turned this way and that, sniffing. Heaps of snow covered the ground and tall trees were covered in white. The wolves let their tongues loll out between their jaws, tasting the cold, their hot breath misting in the air.

A grey she-wolf led the hunting party, and the white wolf stalked through the white wood like a silent shadow, the pack following. He shook his coat slightly, removing the fresh snow that had fallen there. The wolves dug their snouts beneath the snow for a few moments, catching the faintly familiar scent of the elk. They followed their noses until the scent became fresh. The white wolf looked up, spotting what looked to be a large elk beginning to walk towards a clearing in the wood.

 _Now,_ Jon thought, and Ghost lunged forward in a great burst of speed. The grey she-wolf’s strong jaws closed around the elk’s hind leg, and she dug her paws in to the ground, sliding to a stop. While the she-wolf helped hold the elk down, the white wolf leapt in for the kill bite, his powerful jaws clamping down on the elk’s neck. Jon then ate as a wolf with Ghost, along with the rest of the pack, to satisfaction.

As the first sliver of a new moon came peeking through the clouds, the wolf pack came across an old abandoned watchtower. Beneath the snow, what was left of the tower was covered in ivy and moss covered the tumbled stones. Although mostly buried under snow drifts, the tumbledown tower looked as though it could have been formidable at one time. Jon knew of ancient watchtowers near Winterfell, and the stories Lord Eddard had told him of the old Kings of Winter and their guarded strongholds in the wolfswood. He wondered if they were near Winterfell now, and as his thoughts turned to Sansa and Arya, the grey she-wolf licked him, her rough wet tongue rasping against the white wolf’s face.

The pack then made its way inside the tumbledown tower, at least finding shelter from the cold wind. The night turned bitterly cold, and Jon lay down to sleep with Ghost, the shaggy bodies of the wolf pack piled up together so they could all keep warm. A memory came forward, from all those years ago when they’d arrived back at Winterfell with the direwolf litter. He had found Sansa in the godswood, and her blue eyes sparkled with excitement at the sight of the two pups in his arms. She rushed forward, and he handed over the smallest pup of the litter, with its grey fur and bright golden eyes. She smiled, and hugged the pup to her chest.

 _“Wolves wed for life,”_ their lord father had then said, and they turned at the sound of his voice. _“Just like women. You take one, and that’s a marriage for life. The wolf is part of you from this day on, and you are part of the wolf. It is a bond that will change both of you, and it is a bond that cannot be broken.”_

Inside Ghost’s skin, Jon felt comforted and safe. As Nymeria silently nuzzled against his neck, her breath a hot mist, his eyes drifted closed.

*****

Jon’s eyes flickered open, his heart pounding. That had been the most vivid wolf dream yet, the feeling of living inside Ghost’s skin had never been stronger. He gazed about him; he was surrounded by darkness. He then felt warm breath against his neck, a warm body snuggled up against him beneath his fur-lined cloak. Memories flooded his mind as his eyes adjusted to the dark, and he instantly remembered where he was and why.

Images of Arya rushed forward and Sansa’s face loomed before his eyes, his heart sinking within him. His heart broke again as he remembered all that had been taken from him – his identity as Lord Eddard Stark’s son, as the brother of Robb and Sansa and Arya and Bran and Rickon. _Rickon._ His throat tightened as painful memories of his youngest brother came to mind. For one terrible second, he was glad that Lord Eddard was dead, so he couldn’t know what had become of his family.

Dany lifted a small hand to his face. She felt the hot tears that fell from his eyes and quickly mingled with her own. “This is all my fault,” she said in a defeated voice, thick with emotion. “Like every Targaryen before me, I seem doomed. If not madness, then I’m doomed to blindness. The gods took everyone and everything away from me. I have no family, and now my dragons are lost to me.” She paused, wiping the tears from her face as she moved off his lap to stand up, clutching the fur-lined black cloak around her bare skin. “I really am the Mad King’s daughter, paying for the sins of my father.”

Jon sighed, and got to his feet. He looked around the dark cavern, taking in the two different tunnels that lay ahead of them. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since they’d first entered the tree. “Well… you’re not the only one who feels shame because of the dishonorable actions of one’s father.”

She turned her head sharply in his direction, her face hardening. “If you’re referring to my brother, Rhaegar, you’re wrong about him. He was not what the Starks and Baratheons said he was. My brother was noble and brave and good. He had a gentle heart, and the realm loved him. Don’t believe the lies Ned Stark told you.”

“Lord Eddard never spoke of Rhaegar,” he replied with a frown. “I heard the story from our maester, Luwin, and high lords who would come to feast at Winterfell. They’d raise their glasses to toast Lyanna’s memory.”

“And curse Rhaegar as well, no doubt,” she said, pursing her lips. She crossed her arms, pulling the cloak tighter. “If only my father had been like Rhaegar. I would feel nothing but pride. If only my brother had lived, things would’ve turned out differently. He would’ve raised me, instead of Viserys, who was cruel and weak. Just like our father. If only Rhaegar had won the war with the Usurper.”

Jon nodded, trying to decide which path to take. Both passages were black as pitch. “Yes, things would’ve turned out differently. You would’ve had no chance to sit on the Iron Throne. Not unless you somehow got your brother’s children out of the way first. But you’ve already shown you have no qualms about that.” He then moved towards the tunnel that felt warmer than the other.

Following behind him into the tunnel, she sighed. “Tyrion was right. Maybe I should’ve tried wanting something else. Growing up, Viserys talked endlessly of reclaiming Dragonstone and King’s Landing, the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms, the jewels and silks and gold that had been taken from us. He said one day we would get it all back.” She paused, sadness filling her heart. “All I ever wanted back was the happy childhood that had been lost to me.”

“So what changed your mind? Why not settle back home in Braavos? Why come back and fight for the throne?”

Dany thought for a moment. “I found a sense of purpose that seemed… greater than myself. I saw the plight of those enslaved, abused, and I wanted to do something about it. I couldn’t look the other way and do nothing. I wanted those who would do harm to be punished; I wanted the downtrodden to rise up. Then my ambition grew, to do more, be more. And I knew that I could. But… it was all for naught in the end. I’d give anything to be there now, in that big stone house with the red door and the lemon tree outside my window.” Her thoughts then turned to Drogon. His loss left her feeling hopeless, and she quieted, saying nothing further.

He said nothing in reply, and began concentrating on making his way through the dark tunnel. The path was twisty and cramped. Loose dirt crumbled and fell as their hands slid along the wall. Thick white weirwood roots were growing out of the tunnel wall and ceiling, and their fingers found hanging tendrils and spider webs among them. They passed more roots twisting through the walls, following the dark tunnel and moving deeper into the earth. After the freezing cold of the land they escaped from up above, the tunnel was warm. Down in the ground beneath the Whitetree, there was no snow, no ice, no White Walkers. Just darkness and warmth.

There were side passages with paths that led from the main one they walked, and at times they could hear water dripping somewhere to their left. The weirwood roots were on all sides, branching through dirt and rock, forming passages and closing off others. As they passed them by, it became evident that some roots had ravens perched atop them. They could hear the birds muttering and the rustling of their wings. There was nothing else around them except white wood, thicker than giant’s legs, and black soil. If Jon hadn’t known better, he would’ve thought they were beneath a grove of many weirwoods instead of just the one massive Whitetree.

He suddenly came to a stop, his eyes focusing on the path in front of them. “There’s a light,” he whispered. It was small but visible. “Up ahead.”

“Sunlight?” Dany whispered back. “Have we reached the outside already?”

Watching the light, he thought it seemed to flicker. “No, not the sun,” Jon replied. “It might be a candle, or a torch.”

A knot of fear tightened in her gut. “Who would be down here?” she asked nervously, reaching out and taking hold of his wrist. “Were there tunnels from the Wall? Could it be the Night’s Watch?”

“Yes, there were tunnels that led through the Wall, from one side of it to the other. But a tunnel that leads out underground to the haunted forest… I’ve never heard of such a thing.” He sighed, thinking for a moment. “But someone made these passages.”

“And someone is still down here, lighting candles?”

He walked slowly, nerves filling his stomach, keenly aware that Longclaw was lost to him. The light ahead continued to flicker, growing brighter and coming closer as they moved towards it. When the tunnel opened up on a chasm, the source of the light became clear. There was indeed a lit torch, burning in what looked like a sconce on the wall to the right. They had come to a natural bridge in the tunnel, made of stone and weirwood roots. On the other side of the chasm, across the bridge, another torch burned inside a wall sconce. Not far below, the sound of water trickling over rock could be heard.

“An underground stream,” he whispered. “At least we’ll have access to fresh water.”

As he lifted a hand toward the burning torch in the wall sconce made of stone, Dany reached out and grabbed his left wrist. “No, wait.”

Turning back with a questioning expression, he looked at Daenerys. It was the first clear sight of her that he’d had since they’d climbed into the carved out hollow of the great weirwood, granted by the ruddy glow that emanated from the burning torch. She seemed even smaller, holding the large black cloak around her body. Her hands and face were grimy with dirt. She raised her eyes to meet his, her expression tired and forlorn. He supposed he looked no different.

“We don’t know what’s down here,” she said in a low voice. “What if it’s _them?_ Or those things…”

“White Walkers would never light a fire, nor would their wights,” Jon replied, shaking his head. He turned and took the torch down from the wall, holding it out ahead of them, the flames burning orange and yellow, and approached the natural bridge. He was silent for a moment. “Men light fires.”

*****

Jon reached behind him and took Daenerys by the hand. He made a hesitant step forward, his grip on the torch tightening. They moved onto the bridge made of wood and rock, and slowly made their way across, careful to maintain their stability. Walking forward, they stepped off the bridge and reached a curve in the passage, the darkness illuminated by the torch. Jon turned to his left, viewing the tunnel as it continued for some ways until it curved again to the right. 

As he began walking, he felt the power of the great weirwood thrumming through him – the immense force emitting from the tree suddenly became sharper, more refined. He knew he had chosen the right passage. Every ten yards, they passed by similar sconces with burning torches that had been placed on the wall, giving the tunnel a reddish glow. They quietly followed the lit path, curving to the right and then to the left, but always descending. After walking for about a hundred yards, the tunnel opened on a cavern as large as Winterfell’s great hall. Dany gasped as they halted, and Jon stood as if frozen, staring in wonder and disbelief.

Against one wall was a large nest made of white weirwood roots woven with dead, red branches. Sitting on the nest was a young man, with pale skin and dark hair. He wore a brown leather jerkin over a tattered, dark brown tunic. His woolen breeches and leather boots were also brown. It appeared as if a moss covering had been made for his seat. The weirwood roots cradled his arms and legs in such a way that made the tangled wood look less like a bird’s nest and more like a throne.

A small cookfire burned in front of the wall opposite the weirwood throne and an iron stew pot sat upon the flames. A figure lay sleeping on top of a pile of furs near the fire, but it was impossible to tell whether it was a man or a woman. The walls of the great cavern held a few torches, but not nearly as many as one would have expected for a space so large. It felt much darker inside compared to the brighter path of the tunnel. If the torches and cookfire went out, the cavern would become blacker than a raven’s feathers.

Holding the torch out in front of him, Jon stepped quietly into the cave and moved towards the man sitting on the throne until he was inches from it. The power of the weirwood seemed to thrum within him. His blood was singing. He lifted the torch and took in the man’s face. He then stared in surprise, for the man sitting there was young, no older than sixteen years. The young man’s eyes were opened, but he appeared to be asleep. His eyes looked cloudy, glazed over.

Jon moved closer and waved his torch back and forth. There was no response. _Is he dead?_ He then looked down and saw the chest move with his breathing. Something in the pit of his stomach tightened as he stared at the man’s face. A small voice in the back of his mind told him the young man must be Bran’s age.

“Who could he be?” Dany asked. “Why would he be living down here?”

 _Could he be Bran?_ Jon wondered, not wanting to hold out much hope. Bran had been just a ten year old boy when he’d last seen him, the day he left for the Wall. He would be about sixteen years of age now. But it seemed almost too impossible to even imagine. He didn’t want to let himself believe it could be true.

Meera’s eyes fluttered open. She heard the fish stew bubbling over the cookfire. She heard voices whispering. A knot of fear tightened in her belly. Raising her head slowly, she looked at where the sound was coming from. She saw a man holding a torch speaking with a woman, short in stature, who had long blonde hair cascading down her back. She was draped in a black, fur-lined cloak, much too big for her, and was barefoot. The man had no sword girded about him, and it didn’t appear they had weapons of any kind. Still, she moved her hand down to her boot, pulling a dagger free.

As quietly as possible, she sat up. The man and woman had their backs to her, and continued to whisper to each other. With a sense of panic, she saw they were standing in front of Bran, blocking her view of him. Her heart pounding, a surge of power racing through her, she got to her feet and tightened her grip on the dagger. She would never allow any harm to come to Bran.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

They turned quickly, facing the woman who now stood before them, their eyes darting to her sharp knife. They took in her brown and dark green clothing, her dark curly hair. She was also fairly young. The nerves in his gut began to dissipate and he took a deep breath. “I am Jon Snow, the King in the North. And who are you?”

Her eyes went wide, and her mouth fell open. She immediately lowered her dagger, and bowed, dropping to her knees. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I am Meera Reed of Greywater Watch. I, along with my family, have pledged an oath of fealty to House Stark and to Winterfell.”

Jon started. “The Lady Meera? Of House Reed?” He spun back around, holding the torch high above him and stared at the young man on the weirwood throne. “Bran?” His heart beat furiously beneath his ribs. “…Bran!” He grabbed his arm and shook gently, but Bran still did not stir. He turned back to face her. “What’s wrong with him?”

“There is nothing wrong with him, Your Grace,” said Meera, standing upright. “He is only dreaming.”

“Dreaming?” Jon replied, his brows furrowing. “Then why won’t he wake up?”

She sighed. “He wakes up when he is ready to wake up, Your Grace. Sometimes he dreams for only a few moments. Sometimes he dreams for hours. I never know how long he’ll be gone until he wakes up.”

He stared at her. “Gone? What do you mean? Where does he go?”

“He watches the world, Your Grace.” Meera’s gaze then went to the short, blonde woman standing next to the king.

“I’m sorry, Lady Meera. This is…”

Dany pursed her lips. “I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.”

Meera’s green eyes widened. A knowing look came over her face, which she quickly masked, but her eyes continued to glance between them. She bowed her head. “Your Grace.”

Jon smirked. “Oh, you’re stopping there. Don’t you want to recite all the rest of your titles?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary down here in this hole in the ground,” she said, shooting him a hard glare.

He turned back to the daughter of Greywater Watch. “What do you mean, _‘he watches the world?’”_

Meera slipped her dagger back into her leather boot. “Bran is a greenseer, and a powerful one. He was chosen by the three-eyed raven, the last greenseer who was once a lord called Brynden. He was with the last remaining children of the forest, until the Night King came for Bran and they all died. We barely escaped, and would have died ourselves if your uncle Benjen hadn’t saved us. And now Bran is the last.”

“Uncle Benjen?” Jon was shocked, and then felt a flood of relief knowing that his uncle was alive. Or at least he was at that time. Greenseers. The children of the forest. He was trying to wrap his head around the events that had shaped Bran’s life since he’d escaped the sacking of Winterfell. “How long ago did this happen?”

“Some months, Your Grace, but I can’t say for certain. It’s difficult to keep track of time in the cave.”

Dany looked over the girl curiously. “And how long were you with this three-eyed raven?”

Meera turned her attention to the queen. “About two years, Your Grace.”

Jon turned back to look at Bran. He hadn’t woken. His eyes were still open, still clouded over. He glanced down. “His legs… are they still…?”

“Yes,” she replied. “He cannot walk.”

“Have you been taking care of him all this time?” he asked, turning back to look at her.

She nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. Ever since we found Bran and little Rickon in the wolfswood outside Winterfell.” She gave him an expectant look. “And how is young master Rickon? The last we knew he was heading for the Last Hearth with a wildling woman named Osha.”

Jon closed his eyes, shaking his head as he lowered it.

Meera’s face crumpled. “Oh no…”

“Do you think Bran will waken soon?” he asked, partly to change the topic. “I need to speak with him.”

“He needs to speak with you, too,” she replied. “But I cannot say when he will wake up. Rest up by the fire and take some stew. It’s hot and it will do you both good. I’m sure you’re hungry. Bran isn’t going anywhere.”

After spreading out the furs for them to sit, Meera dished up the fish stew into wooden bowls. Jon reached for a bowl. The smell made his mouth water. He couldn’t remember when he had last eaten, but it had to have been at Winterfell. Dany also received her bowl with thanks, grateful for a hot meal. When he was done with his stew, he finished what was left of hers as well.

“You should eat more,” Jon told her. “Keep up your strength.”

“My strength for what?” she replied bitterly, but before he could answer she turned her attention to the girl. “Lady Meera, aren’t you worried that the Night King will find you down here? You said he came for you before.”

She shook her head. “Not me, Your Grace. Bran. And Whitetree is warded. The dead cannot come here.”

Dany thought for a moment. “Warded? You mean protected by magic? Who cast the spells?”

“The children of the forest. They’re all gone now, but their magic remains as long as the weirwoods remain.”

“Where do you come from, Meera? Where is Greywater Watch?”

She cleared her throat after swallowing a bite of her stew. “It’s in the Neck, Your Grace, a bog that divides the North from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. I left there several years ago with my brother, Jojen, to travel to Winterfell to renew House Reed’s oaths to House Stark. I doubt I shall ever see it again.” Sadness filled her heart, and she grew silent.

Dany said nothing more to the girl.

“Why would the Night King want Bran?” Jon asked, setting the two bowls off to the side. A knot of dread tightened in his gut. The White Walkers must know that he and Daenerys escaped inside the great heart tree. Would they simply lay siege to the old village, waiting for them to come out? Or would they forget about them and make their way south to Winterfell, to King’s Landing?  

Meera sighed, placing her own bowl down on the ground. “I don’t really know. But Bran’s power must be a threat to him.” She wanted to tell them of the Night King’s mark on his arm, but left off for Bran to tell them of it. She also wondered just how much Jon Snow knew about himself, about Daenerys, but kept her thoughts silent.

Jon turned and stared at the young man he once thought was his brother, who had yet to waken from his trance. He then yawned. A belly full of hot stew had made him sleepy. He gathered up some furs, before carrying them closer to the weirwood throne. Placing them on the ground beside the chair of white roots, Jon laid down beside Bran. As his eyes drifted closed and he succumbed to sleep, memories of Sansa filled his mind.

…They lay side by side, their breathing finally returned to normal. A blissful smile was etched across her tearstained face while she brushed the damp strands of dark hair out of his eyes. He held her close as feelings of contentment flowed through him. Faint music could still be heard from the feast in the great hall below.

“Sansa, I…” he whispered, but she didn’t let him finish what he was going to say. She captured his mouth with her own, seeking his tongue with hers. But he had suddenly become hesitant. Guilt was starting to rise up in his chest. She urged him on with her touch. The feel of her fingertips on his bare skin flooded his senses with pleasure. She slid her hand down further and he gasped sharply when she wrapped her hand around his cock, chills running up his spine.

He didn’t need any more urging after that. His kiss became passionate, turning hungry with lustful need, and her arousal doubled, the wet heat at her core building. His hands went to her breasts, gently squeezing and fondling, giving extra attention to her hardening nipples, as his mouth went to her neck, kissing, biting, licking. Her skin was like warm silk.

He lifted his head from her neck and they gazed at each other, unwavering and intense. She took his cock in her hand and began to stroke his length until he hardened again, the palm of her hand soon dampening.

“Sansa,” he hissed, thrusting his hips.

She let go of his hard cock and rolled onto her back, taking him by the arm and pulling him with her. For the second time that night, he settled his hips between her legs. His hand slid down to her center, soaked with her need, his fingers moving along her wet, swollen folds, gathering her juices over her hardened nub. She jerked, her hips arching at his touch. He then rubbed her carefully, applying steady pressure in rhythmic circles.

“Oh, Jon,” Sansa gasped, her eyes squeezing shut.

It wasn’t long before she was moaning, panting hard and bucking her hips at his hand. She was breathing heavily and staring up at his eyes, hooded with desire. He lifted his hand and sucked his fingers clean, his groin tightening in response. He then moved forward, guiding his cock to her entrance, and a moment later he was slowly filling her completely. His cock went deeper and deeper, until she moaned and whimpered. Her arms went around his back as her legs locked around his hips.

Resting most of his weight on his forearm, his other hand went to her face, caressing with his fingers, tracing her jawline and gazing into her eyes as he began to thrust, slow and sensual. Lips and tongues occasionally met in languid kisses and soft strokes, before they pulled away and gazed at one another silently, their heavy breathing filling the air around them. Soon the heat of their impending release began to build up, and he started thrusting faster, harder. The coiling tension at her center burst, and she cried out his name. Instantly, he went rigid above her, and his face contorted as words of pleasure tumbled from his lips, and they were riding their shared ecstasy, their hips rocking against each other, their moans filling the bedchamber.

Breathing hard, he moved off of her, and collapsed on the mattress, but he instantly reached for Sansa and pulled her close to him. Once again, he held her tightly to him, his arms encircling her protectively, before bringing a hand up to her face, brushing her red hair away from her forehead, tucking loose strands behind her ear.

…He started awake. “Sansa.” Eyes fluttering, his vision adjusting to the darkened room around him, Jon quickly gained his bearings. He was in the cavern beneath Whitetree village. He found his hand was holding onto a weirwood root. Letting go, he sat up and heaved a sigh. The dream had been so real, as if he was experiencing it all over again. What he wouldn’t give to be back there with Sansa, to have never left that bedchamber in the Riverlands.

Dany watched him awaken from sleep, heard him speak Lady Stark’s name. Rest and food and a hot fire had helped revive them, but she thought they both seemed even sadder now, sullen and weary. Her thoughts once again went to her dragons. She mourned Drogon and wondered about Rhaegal and Viserion. The gods had taken away all that she held dear, and now she was going to live out the rest of her life underground with a dreaming cripple, a king without a crown or a sword, and a girl who wished she was back home in her swamp. She thought of Daario, she thought of Tyrion, and finally her brokenhearted thoughts turned to Drogo, and she felt like weeping.

“Jon? Jon Snow?”

Startled, he turned and faced the weirwood throne. The young man’s eyes were no longer cloudy, but bright. His youthful face held a confused expression and a smile. “Bran! You’re awake!” Standing quickly and stepping closer to the throne, he pulled Bran to him and embraced him fiercely. Hot tears pricked his eyes.

After a moment, Bran pulled back. He smiled. “I should be surprised you’re here, but somehow I’m not. We have a lot to do, and the hour is late.”

“What are we going to do?” he asked.

“Have you learned how to slip your skin and become one with your direwolf?”

Jon hesitated. “Not exactly. I dream, and usually I’m dreaming that I’m seeing with his eyes. But that’s all. I’ve never done it consciously.”

“There’s much I need to tell you, but it’s better if I show you,” replied Bran. “You’re going to watch and listen and learn.”

He stared, unsure of what to say. _You know nothing, Jon Snow._


	32. The Horn That Wakes The Sleepers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'My dreams are not like yours, Ser Duncan. Mine are true. They frighten me. You frighten me. I dreamed of you and a dead dragon, you see. A great beast, huge, with wings so large they could cover this meadow. It had fallen on top of you, but you were alive and the dragon was dead.'
> 
> 'Did I kill it?'
> 
> 'That I could not say, but you were there, and so was the dragon. We were the masters of dragons once, we Targaryens. Now they are all gone, but we remain.'" ~ The Hedge Knight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented on the last chapter! I wasn't sure what the response would be after being gone for nearly four months. I truly appreciate your support and encouragement!

Standing in Winterfell’s courtyard, Sansa’s heart was beating so fiercely beneath her ribs that she thought it was going to burst from her chest. “No,” she whispered helplessly, as she watched Jon challenge Daenerys outside the castle’s main gate. Her eyes kept darting to the two dragons prowling in the snow behind the queen, panic flooding her insides until the babe inside her taut belly began kicking at her as well.

She turned and watched the green dragon fly from the broken tower, an answer to Jon’s whistle, soaring into the air and then quickly landing in the snowy ground outside the castle’s walls with a great thud, the ground shaking with the impact. The other two dragons snarled at him as he hissed. With widening eyes, she watched the king bid the green dragon to bend his neck, and the dragon obeyed. He climbed onto its back, while the young queen vaulted effortlessly onto the neck of the large black one. The dragons hissed and roared, filling the air with yellow flame.

“Ser Davos!” she called out towards the battlements.

He turned his own widened gaze down at her. “Yes, my lady?”

Her heart pounding, eyes pricking with tears, she shouted. “Jon won’t survive two against one! We have to do something!”

The three dragons then leapt into the sky as one. Sansa’s heart leapt into her throat. “Davos!” she shouted again, becoming almost panic-stricken.

Amidst the snow and cold, all those along the battlements and inside the courtyard then heard the voice of Ser Davos Seaworth ring out with a command of, “NOTCH. DRAW. LOOSE.” Again, and again. Black arrows soared into the sky, like they were piercing the heavens. The white-and-gold dragon was slower than the one Jon rode, which was already beyond the archers’ reach. The largest of the three, the great black one carrying Daenerys, was also slow, yet determined to go after its target. Spearmen rushed to the top of the battlements as the white dragon, distracted from following the others, turned his attention on his human attackers.

The chaos of battle ensued. Every direction Sansa turned, people were running. She heard voices shouting, arrows singing through the air, and the dragon’s angry roars. Bursts of flame flowed from its jaws, the men atop the battlements ducking for cover inside the outer wall’s guard turrets as well as the watch turrets of the inner wall.

“Arya!” she called out for her sister, who had disappeared in the fray. She could no longer see her up on the wall. “ARYA!”

A moment later, a warm hand grasped her palm. “I’m here.”

Before another word could be spoken between them, they suddenly heard a sound like thunder, and the grey clouds high above the castle were aglow, as if they were on fire. “Jon…” whimpered Sansa.

“Lady Stark!” Brienne came rushing forward. “Get inside the Great Keep. Hurry. You and Lady Arya both.”

“I can fight!” balked Arya, holding Needle firmly in her left hand.

Theon Greyjoy scoffed. “You're going to slay a dragon with that skinny thing?”

They turned to see the young man from the Iron Islands standing there, and Gendry walking quickly towards them. She glowered at him. “How about I slay you instead, Turncloak?”

Screams were then heard, postponing an argument, and they watched as soldiers engulfed in flames fell from the battlements.

“Get inside the castle!” Brienne commanded as Gendry joined them. “All of you! Or you’ll be burnt to a crisp!”

Arya began to contest this order (“We’ll probably be burnt to a crisp either way!”), but Theon grabbed her by the hand along with Sansa and started to march them toward the Great Keep. After a few moments, the youngest daughter of Ned Stark pulled free of his grasp. “You don’t need to hold onto me,” she scolded angrily, before walking ahead of them to the stairs that led to the keep’s second level. She ran up the steps to the wooden railing overlooking the courtyard below, her widened eyes trained on the dragon. Moments later, her sister and Theon joined her.

Sansa, her hand caressing her belly protectively, looked down at her sworn sword. Brienne was a true knight in every way except for possessing the actual title, and there she was, standing as if frozen in the courtyard, seemingly at a loss as to how to live up to her oath of fealty and service. How could she possibly protect the daughters of Catelyn Stark from a dragon? But for as much as Sansa worried about her child as well as her own safety and the lives of everyone inside Winterfell’s walls, her thoughts dwelled on another battle raging high in the sky, beyond her vision. Anxiousness and fear over Jon threatened to overwhelm her, pushing her fears for her own life into the background.

The white-and-gold dragon rained fire from the sky, which melted the snow and sent men plummeting from the inner and outer walls to the snowbanks below. Everything was chaos. House Stark’s lords bannermen had been rushed off the battlements and down to the ground, before being led inside the squat and round drum tower that was the First Keep. But even that was no guarantee of protection, as a sweep of the dragon over the castle reduced the gargoyles atop that tower to blackened stone.

Davos, who had been watching in horror as soldiers became engulfed in flames and fell from the battlements, called the men into action. “Fire at will!” he commanded. Knots of resistance formed as others collapsed, spears and arrows filling the sky. The white beast lurched through the air, continuing to wreak havoc, their weapons having little success.

He turned to Tyrion Lannister. “It’s not good enough.” Brows furrowed, heart pounding. “What do we do?”

“Me?” replied Tyrion, throwing an anxious gaze at the dragon circling castle. “How the seven hells should I know?”

“You defeated us at the Blackwater,” Davos said. “And you’ve spent more time in the company of these beasts than the rest of Westeros.”

He hung his head and heaved a sigh in frustration. Knots of guilt tightened in his gut, knowing what the death of her dragon would do to Daenerys. “Ships in the water are a little different than a flying serpent breathing fire from the sky. Besides, men of the North do not want to take orders from me.”

Jaime Lannister stepped closer. “But you saved the city. You could do it again. If we don't kill that thing, who knows how many will be slaughtered?”

“King’s Landing was saved with a lot of forethought and planning,” answered Tyrion, throwing his hand in the air. “We also had catapults and wildfire, which was essential to our victory. We won’t find wildfire here, I imagine.”

“Winterfell has catapults.”

They all turned to see Tormund Giantsbane standing there, spear in hand. He nodded as archers rushed by, reinforcements to take up the castle’s defense from their fallen comrades. “Jon Snow fortified the walls with catapults months ago, to prepare for the war that’s coming. But… it wasn’t a war with dragons that he had planned on.”

Davos, Jaime, and Tyrion all exchanged furtive looks, the sounds of men shouting and the dragon’s roars filling their ears.

The Hand of the Queen ran along the inner wall with Davos, giving commands to the men setting up the catapults, doing his best to ignore the northmen’s looks of disdain. Soon barrels of burning pitch were set loose from the catapults, but Tyrion did not wait to see where they struck. Yet it wasn't long before the beast’s shrieks of pain were heard.

“Kill the dragon!” he heard Davos shout. And again, guilt churned like bile in his stomach.

Ash and smoke and the smell of burnt flesh filled the air around the castle, and the dragon closed his jaws around one burning soldier, and then another. Despite the dripping wounds where some arrows and spears had ripped through his wings and charred scales where the burning pitch had made contact, his hunger for meat was satiated, and he attacked the battlements with renewed vigor. Several catapults were soon lost, their wreckages burning atop the battlements. The men were firing wildly now, desperate to take the white beast down as more soldiers fell to their deaths.

Brienne watched the dragon circle the sky above the castle, unleashing his fiery breath in a sweeping arc, sending men screaming and running for cover. How much more damage would be inflicted until they felled the dragon? Winterfell couldn’t afford to lose more catapults, not if those things, the Others, Tormund and the king had spoken of invaded the North. A moment later, the watch turret nearest the Great Keep went up in flames. Brienne looked up at the worried expressions of Sansa and Arya Stark, gripping the Great Keep’s wooden rail, their faces paling.

“Get inside and take cover!” she shouted at them, before turning and running across the courtyard.

Once she reached the wall, she made her way to the Battlements Gate, an arched postern in the inner wall. It was small, only half a gate; its drawbridge spanning the frozen moat to gain access to the outer wall, but not to the land beyond the castle. The two guards hastily waved her through the gate, their fear and anxiety etched across their faces as they watched the continuing battle against the dragon. She walked through the gate and began climbing the icy, snow-packed stone steps up the inner wall until she reached the wallwalk and its snow-filled crenels. She was a hundred feet above the ground, but still she was not high enough.

Her eyes fell on the scorched, broken watchtower that had become the green dragon’s lair. She saw with each pass the white-and-gold beast drew closer to the ruined tower, perhaps drawn to the scent of its own kind, until arrows shot in his direction like a flock of birds taking flight, forcing him to lurch through the sky to escape them. She needed to make for the broken tower, and knew it wasn’t far from the east gate, just behind the First Keep.  

It was faster to take the east wall, but she knew Jaime would be there with the soldiers. She knew he wouldn’t have run to hide himself away, that she would find him there on the ramparts. But he would ask her what she was doing, and then he would only try to stop her. Brienne turned and started running along the battlements, quickly reaching the south wall. She knew she was taking the long way around the castle’s inner wall, but she couldn’t face Jaime. Not now.

Moving through a watch turret, she turned a corner and continued running down the wall, passing the stables below, before passing the Bell Tower and running across the Hunter’s Gate on the west wall. She ran above the godswood, and turning the corner at another watch turret, she reached the north wall. Up ahead, where north wall met east, the broken tower loomed high in the sky. She took off running along the battlements once again, weaving her way through archers, spearmen, and catapults, their attacks on the dragon having little success. The beast still soared through the sky above, raining fire down upon Winterfell.

Brienne finally reached the covered bridge that connected the inner wall to the fourth floor of the broken tower. At the top where fire from a lightning strike had collapsed the upper floors inwardly, the ruined stronghold looked like a jagged crown. Somewhere up there was the green dragon’s scorched lair. For a moment, she paused to think of Jon Snow, wishing with all her might that he would survive. She couldn't see the other two dragons high above the castle, but at times she heard bursts as loud as thunder.

She moved inside the broken tower, finding its spiral staircase. She climbed the old stone steps, glancing about her at the charred and rotten wooden beams, stepping over and around debris from the watchtower’s ruination. The steps came to an end at a narrow, paneled oak door. She couldn’t go any farther up; the staircase had come to an end. The rest of the steps were now a jumbled mess of fallen stones at the bottom of the tower.

Pulling open the heavy door, creaking on its rusted hinges, Brienne stepped out onto a ridge of the old bulwark as a gust of cold air hit her. She made her way carefully around the ruined parapet, until she reached the spot where the green dragon had burned and clawed away the old stone to make a lair. She turned and gazed out from the tower, observing the castle’s walls and the snow-covered land below.   

Looking up to the sky, she followed the white dragon’s movements around the castle. He was flying lower and closer now, his wings beating slower, becoming labored by the effort and the pain from his wounds. A strong, fatal blow could be all that was needed. But his breath remained lethal, dragonfire intermittently raining down upon the ramparts as he flew overhead, weakening their defenses. Around and around he went, and she watched his movements carefully, counting the time between each pass.

Down upon the walls, the battle against the dragon raged. There was an archer placed at every crenel, catapults stationed next to each guard turret, arrows and spears filling the air, large stones and barrels of burning pitch firing with each pass of the white beast. Jaime watched as some of the barrels shattered on the dragon, screaming as it dropped lower in the sky. His wings were torn, arrow and spear shafts were lodged between his scales, and smoke could be seen hissing from his wounds.  

Viserion answered for this assault, braving another onslaught of arrows and raining dragonfire upon the battlements. Men shouted and tried to escape the fiery breath, but many fell to the frozen moat below, their bodies engulfed in flames shattering upon the thick ice. Jaime wondered how many more men and catapults the castle would lose before they could defeat the dragon, _if_ they could. He caught sight of Tyrion inside a watch turret with Podrick, no doubt relaying strategic plans for Winterfell’s defenses.

Upon sight of Podrick, his thoughts turned to Brienne. She wasn’t in the turret with her squire. He turned and scanned the courtyard below, but did not see her. His eyes were drawn to the wooden rail around the second floor of the Great Keep and the covered bridge that connected it with the armory. Sansa Stark and her sister Arya stood there at the rail, their eyes wide with fear. Gendry Waters and Theon Greyjoy were with them, but much to his surprise, Brienne was not there. What would ever possibly compel her to leave Sansa Stark’s side at a time like this?

His eyes searched for her along the battlements, but she wasn’t to be found there among the guards. He quickly made his way to the watch turret, Tyrion and Podrick halting their conversation at his approach.

“Have either of you seen Brienne of Tarth?” he asked them.

Tyrion only shook his head. Podrick, stepping towards the opening and glancing wearily up to the sky, noticing the dragon had momentarily turned its assault to the south wall, moved fully out of the turret and looked down into the courtyard. She wasn’t with the Stark girls. “I haven’t seen her, my lord. If she’s not with Lady Stark, then… I don’t know where she’d be.”

“Oh, gods be damned,” Tyrion groaned, dropping his head and closing his eyes in frustration. Upon the south wall’s battlements, dragonfire had consumed a reinforcement of soldiers and two more catapults. “Winterfell’s defenses will be smoke and ash and blackened stone by the time we’re able to take him down.”

He continued to pace back and forth. Sighing, he moved through the turret to the opposite side Jaime had entered, looking out at the battlements with soldiers shouting commands to one another, restocking supplies of arrows and loading barrels onto the newly-positioned catapults on either side of the east gate. He then raised his eyes skyward. His mouth fell open.

“Um… brother. I think I found your Brienne of Tarth.” His brows furrowed, staring up in bewilderment. “I hope to seven hells she knows what she’s doing.”

Jaime rushed to his side and looked up, following Tyrion’s gaze. Brienne was standing at the top of a ruined tower, watching the dragon fly around the castle, his mind racing. “Oh, no…” he breathed. A moment later he was running along the battlements, weaving through archers and spearmen.

Down below, Arya caught sight of him up on the east wall. “What is the Kingslayer up to?”

Sansa turned her attention from the white beast in the sky to Winterfell’s east gate, where Jaime Lannister was running across it as fast as his feet could take him. “I… I don’t know.” She continued to watch him, noticing his attention was drawn high in the sky, but not to the dragon. Her own gaze went higher, above the First Keep, until her eyes widened in shock, her mouth falling open.

“Brienne!” Jaime shouted, his guts filling with panic as he ran. “BRIENNE! NO! STOP!” But his desperate cries fell on deaf ears.

After taking a deep breath, she walked back until she was standing just outside the scorched lair’s opening. Counting the seconds, her heart pounding furiously beneath her ribs, knots of fear tightening fiercely inside her stomach even as she tried to push her fear away. She had pledged her life to Sansa Stark’s, and vowed to keep her safe from all harm. The thought that a threat of harm would be coming from a dragon had not occurred to her, but that did not release her from her vows. She had promised to give her life for Sansa Stark’s, if need be.

She’d sworn an oath by the old gods and the new, and she was going to keep it. She turned to watch the dragon curve through the air, flying once again around the east wall and heading towards the broken tower. He was flying even lower than before. A memory suddenly came forward. _“You'll be defending Ned Stark’s daughter with Ned Stark’s own steel,”_ Jaime had promised her once. Brienne then unsheathed her sword and began to run.

Reaching the precipice, she leapt into the air, and with Oathkeeper in hand, she landed with a hard thud atop the back of the white dragon, between its great beating wings. At that moment, the beast lurched through the air, roaring in protest. Then without hesitation, Brienne leaned forward and struck the Valyrian steel blade clean through the dragon’s side, piercing its heart. Viserion screamed, fire shooting out from between his jaws. A moment later, his great wings stopped beating and he began plummeting to the ground.

*****

“BRIENNE!” From atop the east wall and down below outside the Great Keep, Sansa and Jaime cried out for their friend as one. They watched in horror as the dragon fell from the sky, hurtling like a stone toward the ground along with his rider. He heard outcries and gasps of shock from the men standing along the battlements. He and the rest of the men rushed forward to peer over the crenels, to see the fate of both dragon and rider.

Brienne let go of the white beast’s spiny golden scales at the last moment and leapt from his back, her bones breaking as the dragon fell on top of her. The snow drifts outside the walls had climbed so high they almost swallowed them up.

Jaime then turned and started making for the east gate, where men were already moving toward the stone steps that would take them down from the wall, Tormund Giantsbane appearing to lead the rush. He then saw Podrick running down the steps after the wildling.

Sansa hurried down the steps and into the courtyard, making for the east gate, but Winterfell’s guards prevented her from going outside the castle’s walls. “It’s not safe, milady. You mustn’t go out there.”

“But Brienne…” she protested. “She might be… ”

Arya had then run up behind her just as Tormund and Podrick and a group of soldiers ran across the drawbridge, leaving the castle. “Sansa, they’re going to help her.”

She turned and looked down at her younger sister. “Do you think she’s alive?”

Sighing, Arya hesitantly shrugged her shoulders, but then saw the miserable look on her sister’s face. “If anyone can take a beating, it’s her. She… she brought us all the way from Moat Cailin to Winterfell through a snow storm. And… she could beat any of these men at swords. She beat the Hound!”

Outside the castle’s walls, Tormund and Podrick ran through the snow towards the fallen dragon, archers and spearmen running behind them, a mixture of northmen and free folk. The great beast did not stir, no breath escaped from his lungs. The dragon was surely dead. Still, the men walked around him with caution until they caught sight of Brienne beneath the dragon’s neck, where she lay broken and nearly unconscious.

With great effort, the men lifted the white and gold neck off the snow-covered ground as Tormund reached for her and slowly pulled her out from underneath the dragon. Brienne groaned at the excruciating pain, and knew her ribs were broken. She felt someone lifting her into his arms. Her eyes met his blue-green ones, a brief moment of recognition reflecting upon her face, before everything went black.

Podrick had filled with untold relief upon finding Brienne alive, but still feared she would not survive her injuries. He remained with the soldiers as Tormund hurriedly made his way back inside the castle, no doubt carrying her to a maester. He walked around to the dragon’s other side and quickly caught sight of the fatal blow. The rubies and gold of Oathkeeper’s ornate scabbard glimmered in the light. Grasping hold of the hilt with both hands, he pulled the sword from the dragon’s flesh.

Jaime came down the stone steps, followed by Davos and Tyrion, and made to walk through the east gate, but stopped in their tracks as Tormund approached the castle walls. They watched him walk quickly across the drawbridge, carrying Brienne in his arms. Jaime paled. The sight was a knife, twisting in his guts.

“She’s alive!” Tormund barked as he entered the courtyard. He also looked pale and frightened.

As relief spread through Jaime, people rushed forward, shouting for the maester, and then led Tormund across the courtyard to the Great Keep while others ran toward the maester’s turret below the rookery. Sansa also felt untold relief at knowing Brienne was alive. She reached and grasped hold of Arya’s hand, squeezing it. But there was no telling of her sworn sword’s condition, and she feared Brienne was not out of danger.

“I should go with them to the maester’s turret,” Sansa said.

A guard stepped closer. “Lady Stark, you and the Lady Arya belong inside the Great Keep. It is imperative that you both remain out of harms’ way.”

Sansa heaved a frustrated sigh, her face hardening. _I am not some weak, helpless woman_ , she thought bitterly. She looked down at Arya, who was also glowering at the guard. She could guess her sister held similar thoughts.

“That is one mad woman,” a voice quipped behind them.

They turned to see Bronn standing there, looking unharmed though visibly shaken. “But Ser Jaime does like his women a little mad, I suppose. Let’s hope this one lives. She’s a good egg.” He turned to Sansa. “And the guards are right, Lady Stark. You should be inside the keep where it’s safe.”

She turned back to look out through the open gate. “Safe from what? The dragon is dead.”

“Maybe,” replied Bronn. “Maybe not. All the same, you should be inside. There are more dragons than that one, and Daenerys might be back soon. I don’t think she’ll be too happy to find out we killed this one.”

The mention of the queen’s name turned Sansa’s thoughts once again to Jon, fear sinking its teeth into her heart. Her throat tightened, and she was unable to reply. Would Daenerys come back, or Jon? Perhaps both or perhaps neither.

Arya glared at Bronn. “Well, maybe we won’t ever see her again. Jon will see to that.”

Before anyone could reply, House Stark’s lords bannermen approached them. After respectful courtesies were made, the men’s faces became cold and serious. “Lady Stark, we request an audience with you regarding Jon Snow,” said Lord Glover, noticeably glancing down at her swollen belly.

“We need to hear any information you may hold that is vital to the security of House Stark and the king’s position, my lady,” added Lord Manderly, in a softer tone than the Master of Deepwood Motte.

She then caught sight of Jaime Lannister walking determinedly through the courtyard. She knew where he was going. She also knew where she belonged at that moment. “I am going to see Brienne. I will speak to you later, my lords… when the king returns.”

Sansa turned and walked back to the Great Keep. She quickly made her way to Brienne’s chamber. Upon entering the room, she saw Tormund and Jaime standing and watching the maester look her over. Two servants were carefully removing Brienne’s dinted armor and wet boots.  

“Lady Stark,” announced Maester Medrick, looking startled and worried. He then bowed his head, paying his respects. Jaime and Tormund also gave her silent nods while the two servants bowed.

Medrick had served Lord Hornwood before the War of Five Kings, and had been one of three maesters brought to Winterfell by Roose Bolton to take up Luwin’s duties. Upon reclamation of the castle from Ramsay Bolton, Maester Rhodry returned to his service at Castle Cerwyn while Maester Henly returned to House Slate. But Medrick felt honored and gladdened to serve House Stark, and agreed to remain in Winterfell as there was no longer any House Hornwood to return to at present.  

“Will she live?” Sansa asked the maester, lowering the hood of her grey-blue cloak behind her shoulders. Brienne lay unconscious on the bed.

Medrick sighed, and leaned over his charge, gently pressing his fingers along her torso and limbs. “Aye, she might. But her ribs are broken, as are both her legs. If she lives, it will be months before she walks again.”

Sansa closed her eyes and swallowed against the lump forming in her throat, taking a deep breath.

“We’ll just remove her clothing and wash her up, and then we’ll set her legs,” said the maester, before reaching down and grasping the hem of Brienne’s tunic.

“I’ll do that,” Sansa interrupted, hastily moving towards the large featherbed. “Step out of the room. Once she is washed and in a set of clean clothes, you can return to the chamber and set her bones.”

Medrick stared at her. “But… Lady Stark… the servants and I can certainly tend to this woman. I’m sure you have more important matters to…”

Ignoring him, she removed her cloak. “I said I will do it.” Her tone was authoritative, and final. The maester turned to leave the room without further protest. She threw a steely gaze in Jaime and Tormund’s direction. They also left the chamber without a word. Sansa looked over at the servants, two middle-aged men standing quietly next to the wall, awaiting instructions. “I need a basin of hot water with a linen cloth, a maid, and a fire lit in this hearth.”

The servants bowed and left the room. But no sooner had they left than something like distant thunder was heard outside the castle, the granite walls appearing to tremble with the sound. Sansa’s stomach tightened into knots, her fear for Jon once again threatening to overwhelm her. Was that thunder she heard? Or dragons? Something else?

Less than ten minutes later, a young maidservant returned to the bedchamber carrying the requested items, and a linen shift. “I came as fast as I could, milady. One of the cooks said she had a clean shift that might fit the Lady Brienne and she went to fetch it for me.”

“Thank you, Alys.” She paused for moment. “Did you hear that thunder when you were out in the courtyard?”

“Yes, milady. Even the ground shook with it. I suppose it could’ve been thunder. But truth be telling it sounded more like a horn to me. But a horn so loud it can shake the ground doesn’t exist, does it, milady?”

She had hoped to hear of the object that consumed her thoughts, but Alys had seen no sign of Jon or Daenerys or their dragons. Sansa and her maidservant then got to work, carefully removing Brienne’s tunic and breeches before bathing her with the hot water. After they slipped on the linen shift, Maester Medrick returned to the room to bind her torso and legs.  

Half an hour later, Sansa was sitting at Brienne’s bedside. Her sworn sword still laid there sleeping, her broken legs bound and splinted. A tray of food had been brought up and placed on a small table against the wall. A fire burned in the hearth. There was a knock at the door, but it started opening before she had time to respond. The red woman then stood there in her dark red gown, her ruby necklace glittering against her throat.

“Lady Stark.”

She stood, but made no reply. She glanced over this woman she’d heard very little about, but what she knew she did not like.

Melisandre smirked. “I assume you heard the horn as well, my lady.”

“Yes,” she replied, anxious to learn something, anything of Jon. “Do you know what it was?”

“Death has marched on the Wall. It is coming for everyone and everything, followed by a darkness that will swallow the dawn.”

Uncertainty welling up inside her, Sansa shook her head in confusion. “What… what are you saying?”

The red woman stepped further into the room. “The Lord of Light stands behind Jon Snow, but he is far from here. Millions of lives are at stake, and sacrifices must be made. The life of Jon Snow is a great gift to the world of men. And great gifts require great sacrifices. Only death can pay for life, my lady.”

“I don’t understand…” she replied nervously, her eyes darting to the doorway, contemplating whether or not to call the guard.

Melisandre walked further into the room. “The innocent are precious to the Lord of Light, and no sacrifice is more cherished by Him. Sacrifice is never easy. But if the sacrifice of one can save the lives of many, then the sacrifice is necessary. We _must_ do as the Lord of Light wills, my lady.” She stepped closer until she was an arm’s length away, her ivory skin aglow from the hearth fire. Her gaze lowered for a second, before meeting her eyes again. “There is power in king’s blood.”

Her eyes widened and she stepped back, touching the swell of her belly. “What…”

“Lady Sansa?”

She turned and saw Brienne had awakened. She then called for the guard. “Fetch the maester. And escort the Lady Melisandre out of the castle.”

The red woman gave a slight smirk, before walking out. When the door closed, Sansa heaved a sigh of relief and sat in the chair beside the bed, a growing sense of fear and anxiety gnawing at her insides.


	33. The Fire That Burns Against The Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The words of his oath rang through his head. _I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men._ ... He would have given much and more to know that he was doing the right thing. But he had gone too far to turn back." ~ A Dance with Dragons, Jon XI

Snow had begun to fall on King’s Landing, and had continued without letup for two weeks. Atop the Blackwater Rush, a thin layer of ice had formed. Icicles hung from the roofs of every tower in the capital. Every hearth and every torch within the Red Keep had been lit, their fires kept burning continuously. The Conclave in Oldtown had officially declared the arrival of winter months before, and it had finally taken a firm grip on the Crownlands.

Varys looked out over the city from an open window, warming his hands inside his patterned damask robe. Somewhat surprisingly, the city was being managed well in the queen’s absence. It had eventually become known that two dragons were seen north of the Neck, but he had been mostly able to control the nature of this information. Before anxious whispers of another war with Winterfell could lead the people of King’s Landing into a panic, he had made sure that whispers of the queen’s future marriage to Jon Snow spread far and wide.

The talk inside the city had gone from fearful to hopeful, with many expecting Daenerys to return with not only a king, but a husband. At first, Varys had doubted whether the removal of both the queen and her Hand was wise, but so far nothing had arisen that could not be taken care of by himself and the rest of the council, not to mention the gold cloaks that made up the City Watch. The Unsullied had proved to be capable guards, and no one had yet dared attempt to disrupt the queen’s peace.

The Targaryen sigil flew above the Red Keep as well as across the Blackwater atop Dragonstone. All the people inside the city’s gates were well-fed and warm, even the lowest and the poorest, made possible by the reforms the queen had commanded Missandei and Grey Worm to carry out in her absence. Without their sovereign in the capital, the Queensguard busied themselves with enforcing the queen’s justice.

Missandei held an audience each day, with Varys by her side, and each day the business of coins and crops and justice was dispensed with. No crime went unpunished, no injustice went ignored. Although the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms was nowhere to be seen and much of the realm had not been secured, her subjects in the Crownlands prospered and praised her name.

With amusement, Varys then thought of that old man from the Citadel who had turned up in King’s Landing soon after the queen had departed. Marwyn the Mage, he’d called himself. The man had come to aid and advise Daenerys, by way of Meereen. He’d missed the whole battle for the throne. The Citadel had already sent a grand maester to the capital. For a brief moment, he wondered where the old fool was now.

A sudden knock at the chamber door brought Varys out of his reverie. He turned as the door opened to reveal the Master of laws and justice accompanied by the Lord Commander of the Queensguard.

“Lord Varys, a message has just arrived from the City Watch,” spoke Missandei. “Petyr Baelish of the Vale is approaching the Dragon Gate.”

“Yes, I know,” the eunuch replied.

Grey Worm furrowed his brows. “How do you know this? All messages to the Red Keep go through the guards, and then are given to me.”

Varys smirked. “Little birds are more valuable than gold, my friend. They also travel much faster than City Watchmen.” He looked back to the open window looking out over the snow-covered city. “Send word to the guards at the Dragon Gate to accompany Lord Baelish directly to the Red Keep. When he arrives, have him join us in the council chambers.”

Nodding silently, Grey Worm turned and walked out of the room, followed by Missandei. With one last steely glance in the direction of the Dragon Gate, Varys stepped away from the window and exited his private chambers. Several minutes later, he was walking past the black marble sphynxes that flanked the door to the council chambers, their eyes of polished garnet looking on lifelessly. He was greeted with the familiar rich furnishings, the Myrish carpets and the carved screen from the Summer Isles, tapestries from Qohor and Norvos and Lys, before taking the seat at the head of the long table.

Seated around the table was the rest of the small council, Missandei and Grey Worm, Grand Maester Gerardys and Olenna Tyrell. With the oncoming of winter and the departure of Daenerys from King’s Landing, Ellaria Sand had taken a ship and gone back home to Dorne.

The Lady Dowager of Highgarden fixed her steady gaze on Varys. “I hope you know what you’re doing by bringing that snake back into the city.”

The eunuch’s eyes twinkled, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Littlefinger is far less dangerous to the realm if he’s confined here inside the Red Keep.” He raised his hand as Olenna began to interrupt. “Yes, I know exactly what he got up to when inside these walls before, but he’s far too much of a threat if left alone to his devices out there in the world.” He paused, thinking for a moment. “With Cersei removed and Queen Daenerys out of his reach, the only cards Baelish has left to play now are Jon Snow and Sansa Stark.”

“Jon Snow doesn’t seem like the type who can be played,” said Missandei. “At least not with politics.”

“Any man can be played,” he replied in his cloying tone. “When one knows how to play him. And you’re quite right. The young King in the North seems impervious to political games. But I’m guessing he can be swayed easily enough for the sake of those he loves. It’s that admirable Stark honor in him.”

Olenna heaved a sigh. “Is that what we’re going to do? _Play_ Jon Snow? If you want my opinion, there are more important things to worry about.”

Varys smirked. “We aren’t going to play anyone… except he who will likely risk everything he has to play Sansa Stark in a bid for control of the Seven Kingdoms.”

There soon was a knock on the chambers door, and two Unsullied guards wearing gold cloaks stepped into the room, announcing the arrival of Petyr Baelish, Lord Protector of the Vale.

*****

The _Seastrider_ sailed across the cold waters of the Bite toward White Harbor, the largest city north of the Neck, which served as the North’s primary trade port. The harbor city sat on the mouth of the White Knife, a river whose headwaters lay further north, just south of Long Lake. There was a tributary of this river that began in the wolfswood, and lay some fifty miles southeast of Winterfell. A boat would need to be procured in White Harbor that could take them on the journey of three hundred and fifty miles upriver. They needed to make for this tributary that would bring them as close to Winterfell as possible before they would have to make the rest of the journey north on foot.

However, winter was here, and Samwell Tarly thought the chances of finding boatmen who were willing to make this journey were small to none. He knew sacrifices would need to be made to travel so far in winter, and there was a good chance their mission would prove fruitless. A trek so far north would be long and tiresome even in summer, and was no doubt dangerous in winter.

Sam wondered at the tale they would have to tell to convince people to assist them. Should they speak of the white sword and the prophecy? Was there something else they should say instead? Should they request to speak with the Lord of White Harbor? He knew House Manderly was sworn to House Stark, but how much of a risk would they be willing to take for a task that could very well be deemed a fool’s errand? Was House Manderly pledged to House Stark without question, or would he and his companions be turned away and no assistance given? He knew they had little time to waste.

Six days after departing Sisterton, the whitewashed stone walls of White Harbor rose up before them. A thirty feet high thick stone wall, nearly a mile long with towers every hundred yards, was located on the pier that separated the inner and outer harbors. It wasn’t long before the _Seastrider_ gained access to the outer harbor. Although larger than the other, the outer harbor didn’t offer the kind of shelter and anchorage the inner harbor did.

Clutching their warm cloaks about their shoulders, Sam and his companions watched the approach of the white city as the ship entered the harbor. The city air had a sharp scent of salt and fish, quite different from Oldtown, which smelled strongly of flowery perfume despite its location on the sea. The wharf along the dockside wasn’t as busy as he would have expected a trade port to be, but with the onset of winter he supposed that was not out of the ordinary.

The _Seastrider_ was soon anchored in the outer harbor at one end of a weathered pier, her crew working hard to quickly fasten her to the pilings. It wasn’t long before a gangplank was lowered to the pier. Sam, Alleras, and Ned Dayne shook hands with the captain before they disembarked, Gilly giving him a nod and smile. “If you end up needing passage south, we’ll be docked here until the morrow,” the captain said as they moved towards the plank. “And I can’t tell you when _‘Strider_ will next be in White Harbor, or any other ship from the south. Winter is settling in, and I hear it might be the worst one yet.”

“Oh, well, we’re not heading south anytime soon,” replied Sam. “We’re going to Winterfell.”

The captain blinked, pursing his lips. “So you’re still set on this damned fool idea, eh? Winterfell is over a hundred leagues from here. Winter is come. If the cold doesn’t get you, starvation will. Consider leaving whatever messages for Winterfell here with the Lord of White Harbor and returning south.”

Alleras nodded, but his smirk still showed unflinching confidence. “We thank you for your words of advice, captain. It is appreciated.”

The group turned to step onto the gangplank, but the captain cleared his throat. “You. Honorable man of the Night’s Watch.”

Sam turned back. The others paused, briefly glancing behind before continuing down the plank. “Yes, captain?”

“If you’re thinking of taking that girl and her child on a trek across the North, you should think twice,” the captain said in a low voice. “You’re only going to send them to their death.”

In an instant, fear and anxiety over Gilly’s welfare and that of her child rose up inside him, quickly followed by a sickening sense of guilt at the thought of breaking his promise and leaving her behind. Sam did not know how to respond, and merely watched his companions walk off the gangplank and onto the pier.

The ship captain sighed. “ _Seastrider_ can linger here two days, but no longer. I’m expected back at Sisterton. If this business of yours in the city doesn’t go well, I’ll take you back south, all the way to Oldtown if you wish it.”

“Thank you, captain.” Sam then moved towards the gangplank, walking down and off the ship. Gilly fixed a penetrating gaze upon him, but he only smiled weakly in return.

“Oi!”

Sam, Gilly, and their companions turned to look up at the captain standing at the rail. “Keep your eyes on the sky, young sers,” he called down to them. “I hear there are dragons about.” He gave them one last serious look, before turning away and disappearing from sight.

Alleras chucked, and then they began walking down the wharf as customs men approached to board _Seastrider_. The inner harbor was crowded with ships. But unlike the outer harbor, these weren’t trading cogs like the one they’d arrived on, nor were they Deepwater fishing boats or whalers with hulls covered in black tar or drab and tattered carracks. They were warships.

A dozen war galleys rested in their cribs along the wharf, their white sails furled, the cold water of the harbor splashing against their hulls of blue-green. As they walked along the pier, they noticed the names painted in dark green; _Seven Tridents_ , _Sea Witch_ , _Mermaid’s Madness_ , _Merman’s Fury_ , and _Lionsbane_ were just a few they read as they passed by.  

House Manderly’s sigil was flying everywhere, from towers and gates and along the city walls, the white merman with dark green hair, beard, and tail over a blue-green field. It seemed a perfect coat of arms for the port city. And then Sam saw it, his heart swelling at the sight. House Stark’s banner danced about in the cold wind, the running grey direwolf against an ice-white field hanging in many places alongside the merman. He had known that House Manderly of White Harbor had maintained its allegiance to Winterfell for centuries, yet welcome relief spread through him upon seeing the direwolf.

Sam turned and smiled at Gilly, who had also seen the Stark sigil. “They’ll help us here,” she reassured him.

They walked further through the harbor, making their way towards the gate that would lead into the city. Once they’d passed House Manderly’s warships, Alleras glanced across the harbor to the looming mass of the Wolf’s Den, an ancient fortress in the days of the Kings of Winter that now served as a prison. Docked across the harbor, along the pier below the crumbling black wall of the Wolf’s Den, were three lean warships, very different in appearance to the ones they’d just passed by.

Alleras came to a stop, staring across the harbor. “Sam, look at that.”

Sam stopped and followed his friend’s gaze until his eyes laid on the warships. Sails of grey trimmed with white were furled above the decks. Three grey-painted hulls split the water they sat upon, their figureheads a wolf with an upraised paw. The letters on their sterns were painted in black, _Winter’s Song_ , _Wolf Wind_ , and _Lady Lyanna_ , beneath dancing banners that bore the sigil of House Stark.

Memories of Jon Snow immediately filled Sam’s mind. He could see Jon’s tired smile, his brows furrowed under the heavy weight of leadership, his wounds and the scars around his eyes. Yet there were scars that went much deeper than the surface. When he left Jon behind at Castle Black, he knew his friend was grieving, was mourning his lord father, his brothers, his wildling girl, and those he lost at Hardhome.

A part of Sam wished he had been there to save him from the murderous betrayal of the Night’s Watch, and that he had been there by his side when he reclaimed Winterfell. But what use would he have been? He probably would have been killed. Perhaps it would have been a brave and noble death, but then he would have been no use to anyone. He knew he had been right to go to Oldtown, and a part of him believed he was meant to find Alleras, to meet Marwyn the Mage, to travel to Dorne and find Dawn.  

He remembered an early conversation with Alleras after he’d first arrived in Oldtown. _“What are you looking for, Samwell? Your death? Or your destiny?”_ his friend had asked, before giving him that now-familiar smirk, his onyx eyes sparkling with good humor. _“I will answer for you – your destiny. If you were looking for your death, you would have just stayed at the Wall.”_

Sam glanced over at his comely friend with smooth skin as dark as teak, also clutching a warm cloak about his shoulders, and at Gilly with Little Sam in her arms, before looking over to Lord Edric Dayne of Starfall holding a bedroll tucked under one arm. He knew what was hidden inside it. He knew they had now arrived in White Harbor, ready to make for Winterfell. Despite the cold, he felt a fire burning inside his heart. Maybe he had truly found his destiny. It was too late to turn back now. He then silently prayed to the old gods, the gods of Jon Snow, that he would make it there in time.

They walked through the fish market, passing by sailors and fishermen drinking mead or throwing dice. Fishwives called out their wares for the day – clams, herring, and cod. They soon reached the Seal Gate, where two guards were posted. They each held spears and the badge of House Manderly was sewn upon their chests. The gate was open, men and women passing beneath its raised portcullis.

Steeling himself, Sam approached the guards at the gate, who were too distracted with a dockside whore’s attentions to notice those passing through the gate. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, but we would like to see the Lord of White Harbor.”

The guards momentarily abandoned their flirting to look at Sam with furrowed brows, annoyed at the interruption. “And what business do you have with him?” one of the guards replied irritably.

Sam paused for a moment, thinking. “I have important business concerning the King in the North.”

*****

Brienne lifted her arm slightly off the bed and grasped Sansa’s hand. “Are you all right, my lady? What did the red priestess want?”

Sansa, sitting upright in the wooden chair beside Brienne’s bed, did not answer, and merely turned her head to stare at the door. Melisandre had implied she wanted king’s blood, but not just any king. She had said that Jon’s life was a precious gift from her fire god, and it required a price. Was the price her child? After a moment, she turned back and looked down at her sworn sword. “How are you feeling?”

She grimaced as a reply. The pain was sharp in her chest, making it difficult to breathe properly. She knew her ribs were broken, but she also found she couldn’t move her legs. Noticing her pain and discomfort, Sansa stepped over to the table and retrieved a small cup filled with milk of the poppy, bringing it back over to the bedside. “Drink. For your pain.”

Brienne drank it down. “What did the maester say?” she asked, handing over the empty cup.

Heaving a sigh, Sansa hesitated as she sat back down in the chair by the bed. “When I took you on as my sworn sword, you told me that you wanted nothing but the plain truth from me, always.”

“Yet that’s never stopped you from keeping secrets from me,” Brienne replied, arching her brow as the draught washed away the pain from her face. “But somehow I have the feeling you’re about to speak this plain truth and I am not going to like what I hear.”

“Both your legs are broken,” she said. “Medrick says it’ll be months before you can walk again.”

Her throat tightening, hot tears stinging her eyes, Brienne couldn’t speak.

Sansa frowned, her brows knitting. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, nervously playing with her fingers. “At least you’re alive, and you will be well in time. Things could always be worse.” She reached out and took hold of her hand that lay atop the mattress. “That was a very foolish thing you did. Very foolish, and very brave. You saved Winterfell. You saved us all.”

Before she could reply, Arya burst into the room. “Brienne the Dragonslayer!” She smiled, feeling glad of the news that the lady knight from Tarth would recover from her injuries.  “They’re going to write songs about you.”

“Thank you, Lady Arya. I can die happy now,” she quipped dryly, before glancing down at her legs uneasily.

Arya smirked. “The maester says you’re not going to die. They’ll write all about you in history books, about how you saved Winterfell from a dragon. You’ll become more famous than Ser Arthur Dayne, I bet. As soon as Jon gets back, I reckon he’ll make you a real knight!”

Sansa looked down at Brienne, who was now staring up at the wall, her eyes filling with tears. She stood up from the chair and walked over to her sister. “We should let her rest now,” she said quietly.

Brienne watched Lady Catelyn’s daughters leave the room. Once the door closed, the only sound left inside the bedchamber was the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Her head then began to feel cloudy, her eyelids heavy. Finally, she closed her eyes.

Sansa stepped out into the courtyard with Arya. She grimaced in disgust. The air was filled with acrid smoke, a large cloud of it seen rising up from outside the walls. She recognized the scent, a telltale sign of the aftermath of battle; the stench of burning flesh and hair along with the metallic smell of blood was unmistakable. Her eyes searched the sky above, her ears strained to hear, anxious for some sign of the man she loved, but no sign could be discerned. Fear began to grasp a firm hold on her heart, squeezing out breath.   

She tried to focus her attention on something else, on Winterfell and what its people needed from her. The air had grown considerably colder, her breath rising before her in a white mist. The courtyard was filled with men and women moving about quickly, and she noticed Gendry and Theon stepping inside the armory. She saw the great main gates were open, and groups of men carrying sacks of their belongings walked across the drawbridge and into the castle in a steady stream. A few women were among them as well as carts carrying food and supplies. They were coming from the winter town.

Upon sight of Davos, she left her sister’s side and walked towards the gate. He turned and bowed his head at her approach. “Lady Stark.”

“Ser Davos, why are these people leaving the winter town?” she asked.

“We’re clearing out the town of its inhabitants, my lady. The camps of wildlings are also making for the castle.”

Sansa turned as a horn blew from the North Gate, announcing arrivals. “What is the reason for this?”

He paused, thinking over his response. “Tormund thought they would be safer inside the walls of Winterfell, and… that we would be safer by keeping them inside with us instead of out there.”

“Yes, I did,” said Tormund, walking up to them. “I assume you heard the great horn as well, Lady. They are coming.”

“Who is coming?” she replied, the knot of fear in her gut tightening as she looked up at his red-bearded face. A sense of foreboding had hung in the air since Melisandre had visited her in Brienne’s chamber, but now the feeling was growing even stronger.

Turning to look at the horde making its way through the main gates, he sighed. “The dead.”

She swallowed against the lump forming in her throat. What would happen if the dead reached Winterfell? And who or what could stop them from reaching the castle? It wasn’t a question of if, but of when. And then what? What could Tormund or Davos or any of House Stark’s bannermen and soldiers do? Steeling herself, she looked into the wilding’s eyes. She saw a growing fear, but also courage.

“Have you seen any sign of Jon?” Sansa asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

For the first time she saw Tormund Giantsbane falter. He lowered his eyes from hers, and seemed unable to speak for a moment. “No, Lady. I haven’t seen him, or the blonde queen. No sign of those dragons, either.” He then looked at her, meeting her concerned gaze, his features set with determination. “But I’ll do everything I can to protect Winterfell… and _you_ , Lady. See, I gave Jon Snow my word, and my word’s as strong as iron.”

Sansa gave him a small smile, the knot of fear in the pit of her stomach slightly loosening. Her eyes were once again drawn to the open main gates, at the throng of people crossing the frozen moat. They had suddenly gone quiet. And then she glimpsed her, walking with them into the courtyard. The priestess was a beautiful woman, elegant, but there was something deeply unsettling about her red eyes. Those red eyes caught her own and stared back at her intently as she passed by. As her hand curled over her belly protectively, the red eyes looked away. She soon lost sight of the woman, who was moving further into the castle courtyard along with the residents of the winter town.

“Lady Stark.”

She turned and saw House Stark’s lords bannermen standing before her once again. She swallowed, her nerves starting to fray. They had questions about the baby in her belly, about Jon and the declaration Daenerys had made about his parentage. What would she say, when asked? She had answers, and proof of them had been sewn into her woolen cloak. But Jon deserved to know first. He deserved the chance to make a choice. But what if he never returned? If it were solely up to her, what choice would she make? And how long could she keep these things to herself?

“We request an audience with you, my lady,” said Lord Wyman Manderly, his face and voice serious. “It cannot wait.”

A familiar screeching then suddenly sounded out in the distance, somewhere in the land surrounding Winterfell. A dragon. Sansa’s eyes widened and she spun around, looking up into the sky. Along with everyone else in the courtyard, she kept turning this way and that, searching for which direction the sound had come from. The fire of desperate longing burned brightly within her, warming her despite the cold. She felt her ribs were the only thing keeping her heart inside her chest. _Gods of my father_ , she prayed fervently, her eyes filling with tears. _Please let it be Jon. Please bring him home safe to me._


	34. The Dragon Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He did his duty. Some nights, Ser Barristan wondered if he had not done that duty too well. He had sworn his vows before the eyes of gods and men, he could not in honor go against them … but the keeping of those vows had grown hard in the last years of King Aerys's reign. He had seen things that it pained him to recall, and more than once he wondered how much of the blood was on his own hands. If he had not gone into Duskendale to rescue Aerys from Lord Darklyn's dungeons, the king might well have died there as Tywin Lannister sacked the town. Then Prince Rhaegar would have ascended the Iron Throne, mayhaps to heal the realm. Duskendale had been his finest hour, yet the memory tasted bitter on his tongue.
> 
> It was his failures that haunted him at night, though. Jaehaerys, Aerys, Robert. Three dead kings. Rhaegar, who would have been a finer king than any of them. Princess Elia and the children. Aegon just a babe, Rhaenys with her kitten. Dead, every one, yet he still lived, who had sworn to protect them." ~ A Dance with Dragons, The Queensguard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for yet another long wait. I dealt with various forms of writer's block, and then this chapter took a good two weeks to write. I'm a slow writer, and this one took a lot of research. Shout-out to @rhegar on Tumblr for letting me pick her brain. 
> 
> I hope this chapter was worth the wait. Happy reading! : )

Bran sat in thought as Jon Snow slept on the cavern floor, getting some much-needed rest. Just as the three-eyed raven had done with him, he’d shown Jon how to slip his skin and join with the weirwood. They hadn’t wasted any time getting to it, but it hadn’t been an easy task. Slipping into Summer’s skin had once been as easy as slipping on clothes, but Jon was not as practiced with his own direwolf. Wearing the wolf’s body in dreams was somewhat different from purposely slipping one’s skin, and trading one’s direwolf for tree roots was not a simple progression for him.

 _“Grab hold of one of these roots and close your eyes,”_ he had said. _“Slip your skin, like you do when you dream as Ghost, but go into the weirwood instead. Follow the roots up through the earth, to the heart tree above us.”_

 _“I don’t think I can do what you’re asking of me,”_ Jon had replied. _“I don’t have your gifts.”_

_“You are not a greenseer as I am. You will only be able to see what I choose to show you, and nothing more. This is not something you can do on your own. But you are a warg, Jon, just like me. It’s in your blood. So, take hold of the weirwood roots and close your eyes. You will be able to see with my help. I will guide you.”_

It had taken several attempts for Jon to slip his skin and become the tree, but he had finally succeeded. The process had been difficult, the sessions taxing on the mind for someone not gifted with the greensight, and Bran was allowing him some time to rest. It wouldn’t be long before they would have to begin anew, and their next venture into the great weirwood would be their last. Now was time for Jon to learn the truth while he still could, for Bran did not know what the future held.

He did know a great many things, about the past and the present. He knew that the Night King had gathered his army of the dead and marched on the Wall. He also knew that the Night King must have realized he was inside the weirwood, but thankfully its magical protections kept him guarded. Dragonglass could be used to kill the White Walkers, and he hoped the people south of the Wall had enough. He watched Jon as he lay sleeping, calling to mind the events of the Long Night and the prophecy of a promised prince who would rise up to save the world as the last hero had once done. Although the past was an open book to him, he wished he could see just as clearly into the future. But the future was mist and shadow.

He thought back to when Meera and Jojen first told him of the events at the Tourney at Harrenhal, at least some parts of it. She had told a simple tale, leaving out certain details and names. _“That was a good story,”_ he’d said to her afterwards. He’d then told them that the story would’ve been better if it had been the three bad knights who hurt the crannogman, not their squires. Then the little crannogman could have been the hero who killed them all. He’d also said that the mystery knight should have won the tourney, instead of the dragon prince, and then he could have named the young wolf maid the queen of love and beauty.

 _“She was,”_ Meera had said, _“but that's a sadder story.”_

Bran knew all the details now, all the names. Meera had been right. It was a much sadder story than the tale of feasts and jousting she had told him years before. In her story, the little crannogman had been the main character, the tale told through his experiences. But when Bran had slipped his skin and gone to see this for himself, the crannogman’s story paled in comparison to the grander tale unfolding around him, unknown to nearly everyone present at that tourney. However, he knew he couldn’t start there when it came time to show this tale to Jon. The story really began much earlier, and Jon deserved to know the whole truth.

Bran looked over at Daenerys Targaryen, watching her as she lay awake on a pile of furs near the cookfire. According to Meera, she had grown quieter and quieter, barely speaking a word in the hours after he had woken to find them there. While he was busy with Jon, Meera had gotten a set of clean woolens for the Targaryen queen to wear and showed her where she could bathe in the underground stream near the cave, but Daenerys had said but little in response. He wondered how much she really knew about herself, but it wasn’t his place to tell her what she didn’t know. He knew Jon would.

Looking up at Meera, he watched her as she sat by the cookfire, busy working over a large bowl in her lap, crushing and pounding weirwood seeds into a thick paste. Before that fateful night when the White Walkers had invaded their old cave and they lost Hodor, the children of the forest had taught her how to make the concoction. With a sad smile, he watched as she lifted a small cup, pouring in some of the heart tree’s red sap, and continued working on the paste. He knew the time was fast approaching when he must leave her; he felt it in his bones. She would not take it well.

Some moments passed before Meera stood up and, still holding onto the large bowl, walked across the cavern towards the weirwood throne. “It’s finished,” she said to him quietly.

“We have to wake up Jon,” he replied.

Meera glanced down at the ground where Jon Snow lay sleeping on top of some furs in front of where Bran sat. “Don’t you think some things are better off not knowing? Some things are too painful, and…”

He sighed. “Jon needs to know, Meera. How will he be able to do what needs to be done unless he believes that he can?”

“Meddling with the past has never done us any good.” She frowned and dropped her eyes from his.

A knot of guilt tightened in his gut, thoughts of Hodor and the Night King filling his mind. “I’m not going to change anything, I promise.”

She looked up, her green eyes meeting his brown ones. “Even if he asks you to?”

He swallowed, hesitating with a response.

“Bran.”

“I’m only going to show Jon what he needs to see, what he needs to understand. He’s the one, Meera. The prophecy about the prince that was promised, about Lightbringer, it’s all true. He found me for a reason. He brought Daenerys for a reason. The future is unclear, but I feel it with all my heart. This has to happen, or the world is lost.”

Meera nodded, but said nothing more about it. She then knelt down and gently shook Jon’s shoulder. His eyes flickered open and he looked up at her. “It’s time,” she said.

Jon sat up, turning to look at the weirwood throne expectantly.

Bran looked down at him with a hesitant smile and then addressed Meera. “Fetch the paste.”

She nodded and turned to walk back towards the cookfire. Reaching for a small wooden bowl, she scooped a portion of the weirwood paste from the large mixing bowl. After retrieving a wooden spoon, she carried the bowl back over to Jon. He took it from her, holding the bowl in his palms. The bowl was made of white weirwood and it was carved with faces, like the ones belonging to the heart trees. Inside the bowl was a heavy, thick white paste with swirls of dark red.

“It’s a paste of weirwood seeds. You have to eat it.”

“Will it make me a greenseer, like you?” he asked, staring down at the bowl suspiciously as Meera handed him the spoon.

Bran smiled. “No. The greensight is in my blood, and I am the last. But the paste will help awaken your gifts as a warg, so that you can slip your skin and stay bound to the tree for however long is needed. We will be gone much longer than before.”

Jon lowered the spoon to the bowl and ate. The weirwood paste was very bitter, and he gagged as he forced himself to get it down. The second spoonful tasted better. The third was almost sweet. The remaining weirwood paste he ate with pleasure. The more he ate, the better it was. It tasted of sweet cream and cinnamon, of new-fallen snow, the fruity flavor of summerwine, and the first kiss Sansa ever gave him. How sweet her mouth had tasted. He set the empty bowl down on the cavern floor. “What happens now?”

Bran leaned forward and touched his shoulder. “The tree will be your eyes, and I will be your guide.” He looked at Meera, who nodded and then began to move about the cavern, extinguishing the torches in the wall sconces one by one. The darkness grew and filled the cave until only the light from the embers of the cookfire remained. “Sit in front of my seat until you are comfortable and take hold of the weirwood roots.”

Jon did as he was instructed, sitting back against the weirwood throne, his shoulder brushing Bran’s leg. He watched Meera moving about the darkening cave until his eyes fell on Daenerys. She was sitting up on her pile of furs, her violet-blue eyes staring back at him. She looked tired and melancholy, deep sorrow etched across her features. He suddenly remembered the words of Maester Aemon, words he’d overheard right before he interrupted a conversation between the maester and Samwell Tarly.

_“A Targaryen all alone in the world is a terrible thing.”_

He thought the same could be said about the Starks. Jon sighed. Was he a Stark? A Targaryen? He was neither. He used to be Jon Snow: motherless, and then fatherless, oathbreaker, betrayed and murdered by his sworn brothers. He was a friendless bastard without a family, a defeated king without a sword, and he’d failed everyone he’d ever loved. He was damned. He’d been damned all his life, from the moment Rhaegar Targaryen raped Lyanna Stark. Now he felt he was nothing, and nowhere. There was nothing he could do, nowhere he could go. As he continued to gaze at Daenerys, he supposed the same misery he saw in her face could also be seen upon his. They were both damned.

Meera then put out the cookfire and the cave became as black as pitch. She and Daenerys were instantly gone from his sight.

“Now close your eyes and slip your skin,” Bran said, his voice ringing out in the dark.

 _Gladly,_ Jon thought bitterly. His hands encircled weirwood roots, holding them firmly in his palms.

A few moments passed before Bran spoke again. “Follow the roots up through the earth, to the great heart tree above us, until you come to the weirwood’s face. When you reach the face, open your eyes.”

Jon took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and opened a third. He slipped his skin as easily as slipping off the fur-lined cloak that Sansa had made for him at Castle Black, and he left the darkness of the cave behind…

*****

…A cloudless sky and bright sunshine greeted him, as did a busy city street, people walking about, coming and going. Old folks and little children, men and women, busy going about their lives. He watched as women carried firewood on their backs or bundles of linens in their arms, and children carried water. A man pushed a wheelbarrow full of smithing tools, hammers and tongs. They passed him by on both sides, but none seemed to notice him standing there in the middle of the street.

Jon turned around, his eyes widening at the sight of Bran, standing upright on his legs, tall and slender. He stared agape. “Am I dreaming?”

Bran smiled. “Yes… and no. We are still back in the cave, and I suppose it could be likened to sleeping, but we are also here, in this place and time. At least my mind is, anyway. I’ve just brought you along to watch.”

“And, where are we?” Jon asked, looking around him at the people continuing to ignore their presence in the street.

“King’s Landing. This is called the Hook, a long, curved street that connects the Mud Gate to Aegon’s High Hill.” He turned and pointed in the air. “Where the Red Keep sits.”

Jon turned again and looked up. The royal castle made of pale red stone came into view, with its seven massive drum-towers crowned with iron ramparts. Flying above the castle was the Targaryen sigil, a black banner with a red three-headed dragon painted onto it. He sighed. “I suppose they’ll be disappointed to know Daenerys won’t be returning to them.”

Bran shook his head. “Daenerys doesn’t sit upon the Iron Throne. The Mad King does.”

He stared at him with a confused expression.

“You asked where we are, but you didn’t ask _when_ we are.” Bran gave him a half smile. “It’s late in the year 280, almost two years before you were born. The new year is approaching.”

“Why have we come here?”

Bran started walking, seemingly following the steady stream of people. “Important things happened, things you need to know about.”

Jon followed him down the street, passing by singing minstrels and their ribald songs, until they came to a small group of gathered people. The sounds of music and song filled the air once again. A minstrel was playing a harp with silver strings and singing, the commoners drawn more to this man than the others. He was young, perhaps twenty-one years of age or so, with a handsome face. The song he sang was not familiar to him. As he listened to the lyrics about fire and dead kings and grief, he thought the tone rather melancholic for a minstrel.

Behind the minstrel stood a man of about forty or forty-five years, draped in a plain brown traveling cloak. He was stiff, his eyes cautiously scanning the crowd before flitting back to the minstrel. Upon closer look, the man undoubtedly wore armor beneath that cloak along with a sword at his hip. Did minstrels normally have guards? Jon moved forward, closer to the singing man and his harp. He wore a red floppy hat and a red cape. It wasn’t difficult to see that the man was hiding his silver-blonde hair beneath that floppy hat, but he couldn’t hide his dark purple eyes.

Jon turned from the crowd, anger bubbling up inside his chest. “Why have you brought me here?”

“This is where the story begins,” Bran replied. “Your story. You must understand _him_ if you are to understand the reasons why you have been chosen, why you were granted life even after death, why you were born, and for what purpose. This is the reason I have brought you here, Jon.”

“Do you think it will bring me joy to see how I came into the world?” he said indignantly, his throat tightening with emotion. “I don’t need to watch him rape my mother.”

He slowly shook his head. “Not all stories are true. Don’t you want to see the truth for yourself?”

Jon sighed and turned back to watch Rhaegar Targaryen and his crowd of listeners. Upon finishing his sad song of death and woe, applause rang out and some of the women wiped tears from their faces. Several people tossed some coins into an open leather pouch on the ground. The disguised minstrel bowed and thanked them, before lowering his silver harp into a wooden case as the crowd began dispersing.

Prince Rhaegar lifted the leather pouch, weighing its contents as his hooded and cloaked Kingsguard stepped closer. “We made quite the takings today, Ser Barristan,” he said with a smile. “My people were generous.”

“And what would you like to do with the money, Your Grace? There are some other minstrels out today who surely did not earn as much as you. Or we could stop by that favorite tavern of yours for some ale.”

The crown prince laughed. “No drinking today, Ser Barristan. I have things I need to attend to. My wife and daughter should be arriving from Dragonstone by nightfall. We’ll take our earnings to the Street of the Sisters.”

Smiling, the Kingsguard nodded. “The home for the orphan girls? Very well, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar Targaryen lifted the harp case and held it under one arm. “It’s quite the walk to Visenya’s hill from here. I don’t suppose you’d like to carry this for me, Ser Barristan?”

The Kingsguard looked on him with disapproval. “Are you armed, Your Grace?”

“Of course not,” the prince replied. “Why should I be? A minstrel doesn’t need a sword.”

“Well, then, seeing how it is solely up to me to defend you with _my_ sword, perhaps _you_ should carry the harp, Your Grace.”

Tongue in cheek, Prince Rhaegar nodded. The two began walking, Ser Barristan taking up the rear guard position. Jon watched them walk away. He turned to look at Bran, who nodded in their direction. Jon then began to follow the two men, Bran walking beside him, turning down a cramped side street off the Hook until they came to the Muddy Way. They continued walking, ascending as they followed the side streets and alleys up Visenya’s hill until the Great Sept of Baelor loomed before them.

As Rhaegar Targaryen and Ser Barristan came to a stop in front of the Sept, Jon took in the scene in front of him. He had never seen a place so grand. The Wall was perhaps the greatest construction the Seven Kingdoms had ever known, but the Sept of Baelor with its seven crystal towers was unlike anything he’d ever seen. After several moments passed, the tower bells rang midday.

“Right on time,” Prince Rhaegar said loudly over the sound of the ringing bells, smirking.

“Did you want to enter the Sept for prayer, Your Grace?” the Kingsguard asked, his brows furrowing.

Still grinning, the crown prince shook his head as he looked around at the flow of people ascending and descending the stairs of the Sept. “Not yet, Ser Barristan.” His face then fell, becoming serious. “What is the talk among my father’s court, Ser Barristan? About me?”

The Kingsguard looked at the prince in a steady gaze, hesitating before finally giving his answer. “Apparently rumors abound that you are planning to depose your father and seize the throne for yourself, that this is the reason you left the Red Keep for Dragonstone following your wedding.”

“You understand why I left the Red Keep, Ser Barristan.”

He nodded. “Yes, Your Grace. I do.”

Prince Rhaegar pursed his lips. “Do you believe what is being said about me?”

“Certainly not.”

“And what does the Hand of the King have to say about it?”

Ser Barristan gave him a small smile. “Lord Tywin supports you, Your Grace. He’s your constant defender.”

The prince grinned. “Do you think he still holds out hope that I’ll marry that awful daughter of his?”

“I’m sure there are many a lady in the noble houses of Westeros that wish to be your second wife if ever you should need one, Your Grace.” Ser Barristan’s face shone with contempt.

“You can’t know the relief I feel to be away from the Red Keep and the snakes in the royal court,” he replied.

The Kingsguard smiled, nodding in understanding before turning serious again. “There are also rumors of another nature. Others say that the king is going to disinherit you and name your brother as heir to the Iron Throne, no doubt in retaliation over your rumored plans to seize the throne for yourself.”

Prince Rhaegar considered his words for a moment. “Do you believe there’s any truth to these rumors?”

“No, Your Grace. You are a man ready to rule. Prince Viserys is a small child. Your father would never leave the realm in the hands of a child. It’s been done in the past, and no good ever came of it. And you are not the kind of man to usurp your father’s throne.”

Two hooded and cloaked men then suddenly grabbed the Kingsguard from behind, startling him. As he reached for the hilt of his sword, turning, the two men let him go. One of the men started laughing. They were younger than the Kingsguard, and both looked to be around the same age as the prince. The fiery red hair and beard and pale blue eyes belonging to one of the men were visible beneath his hooded cloak. He kept his face serious while his companion continued his fit of laughter, not even betraying a hint of amusement. Jon thought the man reminded him of a young Tormund, albeit humorless. 

“Are you losing your edge, Selmy?” asked the other, still laughing as he lowered the hood of his dark grey cloak. He had dark blue eyes and brown hair, kept short.

“Do you want to stake your life on that, Dayne?” he growled in reply, harsh disapproval etched across his face.

Rhaegar Targaryen smiled. “Only a fool would bet against Ser Barristan the Bold.” His face hardened. He removed the red floppy hat and red cape, his silver-blonde hair falling past his shoulders, and handed them over to Barristan Selmy along with his harp case. The man standing next to Ser Arthur Dayne handed him a black hooded cloak. “Take the coins to the orphanage and then you can return to the Red Keep. Be sure to place my harp in my old bedchambers. I’ll stay with Ser Arthur and Lord Connington. We have business here, Ser Barristan.”

The older Kingsguard nodded silently as he took the wooden harp case and the minstrel disguise from Prince Rhaegar’s hands. He glanced between the prince and his two companions, a hint of suspicion in his expression. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar Targaryen pulled the black woolen hood over his silver-blonde hair as he watched him start to walk away, heading in the direction of the orphanage. “Oh, Ser Barristan the Bold!” he said, before the knight had taken five steps.

The Kingsguard stopped immediately and turned around, the harp case under one arm.

“Remember, no one is to know that I am in the city. The same goes for Ser Arthur. My father believes we will be arriving with the crown princess.” His voice then lowered, and he spoke carefully, his tone like iron. “Nothing should dissuade him from this belief, Ser Barristan.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” He bowed and then turned, moving to make his way through the city.

When he was finally out of sight, Prince Rhaegar and his two companions turned and walked around the Sept of Baelor. When they came to the other side, they made their way through the maze of streets on Visenya’s hill, Jon and Bran following, until they came to Eel Alley. They soon approached an inn, and stepped inside. Arthur Dayne paid the innkeeper two gold coins for a private room, and they were shown to a chamber on the second floor. There was no bed, but there was a round wooden table with several chairs, a hearth with a fire burning, and two windows looking out over the alley below.

A young girl then entered carrying a flagon of ale and six cups, before quickly departing the room. Once she was gone, they finally lowered their hoods. Prince Rhaegar looked about the dusty room. “Why aren’t the others here yet?”

Lord Connington poured himself a cup of ale. “They’ll be here soon, Your Grace. Are you sure you can trust old Selmy? He’s loyal, to be sure, but is he loyal to you or to your father?”

The crown prince sighed and leaned back in his chair, visibly unsettled by the question.

“Come now, Jon,” Arthur Dayne spoke up, noticing Prince Rhaegar’s expression. “Let us hope no one will ever have to make that choice. Ser Barristan is loyal to his duty, but he knows what the king has become. He may be getting older, but he’s not blind. And can anyone doubt his affection and esteem for the prince?”

Before anyone could reply, there was a knock at the door. Jon Connington then got up from the table to open it, and gave a slight smile as he stood aside to let two more men enter the room. They were also hooded and cloaked, and carried swords at their hips. None of the men present wore armor beneath their cloaks except for Ser Arthur Dayne.

“Ser Myles, Ser Richard,” said Rhaegar Targaryen in greeting, smiling as they walked further into the room, the door closing behind them.

“Your Grace,” they spoke in unison with a slight bow to their heads.

Jon looked over at Bran. “Who are they?” he whispered. He then paused, wondering at his way of asking. He supposed there was no need to whisper. The men could not hear him, nor could they see him standing there in the room.

Bran watched them all sit around the table, and then answered in a whisper. “Myles Mooton of the Riverlands and Richard Lonmouth of the Stormlands. They were Prince Rhaegar’s squires before he knighted them, and they are two of his closest friends.”

“And the man with the red beard, stern face?” he asked. “Lord Jon Connington?”

“He and Rhaegar were squires together as boys,” answered Bran. “When the prince was first knighted, Jon Connington then became his squire, but only for a time. His father died, leaving him the lordship of Griffin’s Roost in the Stormlands. After appointing his uncle as castellan, he left Griffin’s Roost and went back to King’s Landing to serve in King Aerys’ court.”

A few moments later, there was a quiet knock on the door, which quickly opened to reveal another hooded and cloaked figure. His cloak was dark grey, and covered his suit of armor. Once the door shut, the hood lowered, revealing a man no older than thirty years of age. Upon sight of the prince and his brothers in arms, the man smiled and moved quickly towards the table. The rest of them stood, and greeted him warmly.

“Ser Oswell Whent,” Prince Rhaegar said with a smile, his hands on the Kingsguard’s shoulders. “Good to see you, my friend.”

“Your Grace,” he replied, bowing his head. “It’s been too long… Not since your wedding.” His face then fell slightly, and he swallowed. His eyes filled with emotion. “We miss having you in the Red Keep.”

The crown prince studied his face. “How bad has it gotten, Ser Oswell?”

The Kingsguard steeled himself, blinking back his tears. “Worse, Your Grace. This is the reason I was slightly delayed. Two men from the king’s armory were accused of treason and brought before your father in the throne room. They were just simple commoners, lowborn and illiterate, but hard workers and innocent of any crime.” He paused, swallowing. “He burned them alive with wildfire, along with their wives and children, right there in front of everyone. The king laughed and laughed as they screamed. And we could do nothing to help them. The wildfire burnings are becoming more and more frequent. He’s named his pyromancer, Rossart, to the small council. You must do something, Your Grace. Please, I beg you.” He bowed his head, his shoulders slumping seemingly under the weight of his emotional burden.

Rhaegar Targaryen exchanged furtive glances with Arthur Dayne. “There is nothing I can do, Ser Oswell. We can only wait for time to do its duty, or else we risk all our lives, and then it’s been all for naught.”

“You belong on that throne, Your Grace, not your father. The innocent are dying for nothing. Your people are suffering. You could put a stop to this cruel madness. Barristan Selmy should never have rescued the king from Duskendale. He should’ve died in Darklyn’s dungeon. None of this would be happening.”

“Lord Jon, those are dangerous words,” the prince replied, his voice turning to iron again.

Arthur Dayne sat back down in his chair. “You can’t ask His Grace to act against his own father. At least not right now. Vultures lurk in the king’s court, whispering lies in his ears. Who can be trusted? The king still has allies, men who will lose their power and influence when the prince ascends to the throne. They don’t want that to happen and would actively work against it. Prince Rhaegar and half the Kingsguard aren’t enough to remove the king. The country could spiral into another Dance of the Dragons. No one wants civil war. The prince would need to rally the Great Houses onto his side. The king would surely learn of it and then he’d burn us all.”

Oswell Whent sat down in one of the chairs, looking miserable. “He’ll probably burn us all, anyway.”

Prince Rhaegar placed his hand on Ser Oswell’s shoulder, giving him a slight squeeze before sitting at the table. “Come, let us talk of something else.”

Sighing, Ser Richard poured a cup of ale for Oswell Whent. “How is the crown princess, Your Grace?”

“She is improving,” said the prince. “Her health is still very delicate and the maesters say she’ll need to remain in bed for several more months to recover. I tried to talk her out of coming to the Red Keep, but she wants to present Rhaenys at court. I’m sure it’ll exhaust her. I don’t know if she will be well enough.”

“Several months?” Myles Mooton replied. “But she was already bedridden for months before she gave birth to the princess.” He eyed the prince, running his fingers through his thick beard as if deciding whether to speak what was on his mind. “That kind of thing could put a strain on a royal marriage. You may want to visit the Street of Silk while you’re in the city.”

Arthur Dayne laughed. “The day His Grace sets foot in a brothel is the day I forget how to swing a sword.”

Prince Rhaegar smirked. “Do you take me for a lecher, Ser Myles? You insult me.” While the men laughed, he stared down at the table, thinking. The room soon fell quiet, the others watching him as his brows furrowed.

“Speak,” said Ser Arthur. “What is on your mind, Your Grace?”

“Before Rhaenys was born, Princess Elia suggested I take a bedwarmer. I refused. She mentioned it again following the birth, when the maesters told us she may need to keep to her bed for half a year to recover. When I declined, she said I should take up a _paramour_ , as she called it. And that I should take one from among her ladies. She doesn’t want any secrets between us.”

Jon Connington stared, dumbfounded. “The princess just offered you the chance to be with other women, to take a mistress with her permission?” He shook his head, his disapproval evident. “The fucking Dornish.”

“I’m Dornish, you know,” Arthur Dayne said, laughing. “Be careful how you speak about my countrymen.”

“You’re a different kind of Dornish,” said Myles Mooton, smirking. “The Daynes of Starfall are not the Martells of Sunspear. Well, Your Grace, maybe you should take advantage of this most generous offer. Princess Elia has some beautiful women among her ladies-in-waiting. Half the men at court are infatuated with them and would pay good money to get under their skirts.”

The prince shook his head and sighed. “If the Kingsguard can keep their vows, then I can as well.”

Ser Myles pursed his lips. “Didn’t Prince Lewyn bring his _paramour_ to Dragonstone?”

“We don’t talk about that,” replied Arthur Dayne, throwing a pointed look at his brother in arms, Ser Oswell. “That’s no one’s business but the Kingsguard.” He turned to the prince, his voice becoming earnest. “Our vows are not the same as your vows. Our duty is not the same as your duty. Men get lonely, especially princes who have experienced the love of a woman. Frustrated men are no pleasure to be around, and particularly men with power. Listen to your wife, Your Grace. She’s given you her blessing and might even choose the woman for you, a woman she knows well, whom she trusts. It bodes for a more peaceful situation than if you were to take up with mistresses behind her back, like most all princes and kings before you.”

“Like my father,” Prince Rhaegar said with a sigh.

Richard Lonmouth leaned forward. “Your Grace, you are not your father, thank the gods. If you want your marriage to the princess to have success, then perhaps you should seriously consider what she’s offered you. I hear she is wise beyond her years, and the Martells have a… unique… perspective on relationships.”

Ser Arthur arched his brow, as if debating that statement. “House Dayne is sworn to House Martell, and I can tell you they never forget a slight, no matter how far back in their history. A private arrangement with Princess Elia is one thing, public humiliation is another.”

Jon Connington sat with his arms crossed, stewing in silence. Prince Rhaegar looked over at his friend. “What is it, Lord Jon? Out with it.”

“You are the silver prince, the prince that was promised.” Lord Connington paused, and then looked down at the table, sighing. “And they gave you an invalid for a wife.”

The smiles in the room turned to frowns, and their eyes all turned to the crown prince, whose face had hardened slightly. The room was silent for several long moments. “She is not an invalid, Lord Jon. And I don’t want to hear you say anything of the sort about your future queen.” Rhaegar Targaryen then sat back in his chair, thinking. “My wife could have been anyone. That is not what’s important. What is important is that we are prepared. Winter is coming, and so is the long night that may never end. We have to be ready for the Great War to Come.”

Jon’s eyes widened and he turned to look at Bran, who nodded silently. He turned back to the conversation at hand, his stomach tightening into an anxious knot.

Myles Mooton scoffed. “Winter is coming _._ Tales the Northmen tell to frighten their children so they’ll behave.”

“And how are you preparing, Your Grace?” asked Ser Richard. “How are you going to forge this hero’s sword, Lightbringer?”

“I don’t know,” Prince Rhaegar replied, frustration creeping into his voice. “Perhaps it has already been forged, and I just have to find it. Maybe it’s not a literal sword at all, just a means of fighting them. I only know what’s been written about the last hero, about the Long Night and the War for the Dawn. I know the prophecy that Lady Jenny’s woods witch told my grandfather. Everything else that witch said came true. So why not this?”

Jon Connington laid his hand on the prince’s shoulder. “Your Grace, there is uncertainty in every prophecy, and only folly can come from trembling in fear over ancient prophecies that are only half-remembered, and those that do remember cannot hope to fully understand the wonders they claim to foretell. Glory lies right here, in the present. There is a throne waiting for you, if only you’d act. It does no good to waste time planning to fight a war that may never come, against an enemy that may not even exist.”

Rhaegar Targaryen nodded, and said nothing more about it.

While his companions continued to talk, and occasionally laugh as they regaled each other with tales from their time spent as young squires, the prince was mostly quiet. He did not appear to pay attention to the conversation, and seemed to be lost in thought. Jon watched the scene unfold, trading occasional glances with Bran before turning his attention back to the men. His eyes were constantly drawn to the young man who would become his father.

What he had witnessed so far had revealed no signs of a monster underneath his exterior charm. He had a confident, somewhat arrogant air about him, but so did a lot of young men. Although quiet and at times appearing sullen, he smiled easily and did not seem to lord his royal position over his comrades. They sat together like equals, and whenever two of them spoke out of earshot from the others, the “sers” and “your graces” dropped off completely, and they were simply “Rhaegar” and “Arthur.”

*****

Their conversation was soon drowned out by the sound of wood knocking against wood, and the scene in front of Jon’s eyes faded like mist. Suddenly he and Bran were standing inside a room larger than the Great Hall of Winterfell. Sunlight spilled across the floor of the cavernous throne room and illuminated the skulls of dragons that hung on the walls. Although evenfall had not yet arrived, the throne room was brightly lit, with torches burning in every sconce.

At the end of the room was the monstrosity of spikes and twisted steel that was the Iron Throne. A gaunt and sickly king sat upon the ancient seat of Aegon the Conqueror. His hair and beard were long and tangled, unwashed and matted, and his nails were yellow and several inches in length. A queen with long silver-blonde hair stood beside him, her hands resting on the shoulders of a young boy who stood in front of her. She was in much finer form than the king. Five members of the Kingsguard flanked them.

The throne room was filled with guests, who all appeared to be full of anticipation, the sound of excited chatter bouncing off the walls. The gallery above was packed with musicians, drummers and fiddlers and pipers filling the vaulted ceiling with soft music. Heralds announced the names and titles of lords and ladies as they entered the throne room.

“What is going on?” Jon asked.

“This is now the day after Rhaegar Targaryen met with his companions inside that inn on Eel Alley,” answered Bran. “His wife gave birth to a daughter one month ago.”

Trumpets then sounded out, alerting the guests that what they had come for was about to begin. After several moments waiting in keen anticipation, through the doors then flowed a river of color and finery, silk and satin and velvet and wool. The heralds announced the royal household of Dragonstone, led by Princess Elia’s ladies-in-waiting and some soldiers from her personal guard she had brought with her from Sunspear, adorned in House Martell armor.

Then the herald announced the arrival of the crown prince, and Rhaegar Targaryen entered the throne room, carrying a babe in his arms. He was dressed in black velvet, with a dozen red three-headed dragons embroidered on his doublet. A red cloak was draped across one shoulder, fastened with an onyx clasp. The crown princess was not with him. Walking up the aisle behind him was Ser Arthur Dayne and Prince Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard, dressed in their white cloaks and intricate suits of enameled armor.

When Prince Rhaegar came to the base of the steps that led to the Iron Throne, he looked up at the king and queen. “Your Graces, may I present your first grandchild, my daughter, Rhaenys of House Targaryen, the Third of Her Name, princess of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Queen Rhaella Targaryen beamed, and came forward from her position next to the Iron Throne. She descended the steps eagerly, warmly greeting her eldest son. After lovingly caressing Prince Rhaegar’s cheek, she reached for the babe, silently requesting permission. The crown prince smiled, and happily handed over the infant to his mother. The queen held her granddaughter tenderly, touching the soft olive skin of the babe’s cheek.

Rhaegar Targaryen’s gaze turned from his mother to look up at his father, his face hardening. Father and son stared at one another in silence for a long moment. Jon turned to look at Bran with an uneasy glance. The tension in the room became palpable, whispers breaking out among the guests. The king finally stood up from his seat and began to approach, slowly descending the steps down from the throne.

Moments later, King Aerys stood in front of his wife and firstborn son. Prince Rhaegar said no informal words of greeting, and his father spoke none to him. Queen Rhaella smiled and held out their granddaughter, presenting the babe to her husband. But the king did not reach for the infant, nor did he make any moves to touch her. He merely leaned over and gazed down at the babe, his brows furrowing.

“She smells Dornish,” King Aerys grumbled with disgust, before turning back to reclaim his seat on the Iron Throne.

Jon watched as Prince Rhaegar’s face became dark and angry, his jaw clenching, his mouth tightening. He took his daughter from Queen Rhaella’s arms, and turned away before the king had reached the top of the steps. He then marched back through the throne room in wordless fury, his Kingsguard and the rest of Dragonstone’s household following. Jon noticed the worrisome glances on the faces of the ladies-in-waiting, and the knowing looks exchanged by Ser Arthur and Prince Lewyn.

Suddenly the scene started to fade as the familiar clack of wood on wood filled Jon’s ears. Just as quickly, a new scene rose before them, and he found himself standing next to Bran in what was undoubtedly a nursery. There was a canopy crib draped in white silk and a circular wooden tub lined with linen sheets, wooden stools placed on the floor beside it. Against the wall sat a featherbed with carved bedposts and a velvet canopy the color of gold. In one corner of the room, a fire burned low inside a stone hearth.

A handmaiden with high cheekbones and a thick braid of black hair that fell to her waist opened a window while another lit the bedside candles. The hour of sunset had almost arrived. Next to the black-haired maid, standing in front of the open window, was a woman dressed in a cloth-of-gold robe, with vines and red grapes embroidered around the sleeves. She turned and seemed to stare right at him and Bran, and he momentarily froze, but she was just as blind to their presence as the others had been.

“Princess Elia Martell,” Bran whispered to him.

Jon thought the princess looked beautiful. She was slender, with dark olive skin and black eyes and long black hair, worn in a braid bound up with red and gold ribbons. She moved slowly about the room, assisted by a handmaiden, and did not appear in the best of health. A writing desk sat against the wall opposite the featherbed, and her maid pulled out the black oak chair with gold velvet cushions before helping her to sit down. The princess heaved a sigh, her discomfort evident as she leaned back in the chair.

“Shouldn’t you get back into bed, Your Grace?” asked the handmaiden. “It has been a long day, and you need to rest. The trip from Dragonstone was too much for you, and you have to be back on the ship in the morning.”

“I’m fine, Myriah,” the crown princess replied with a forced smile. “I don’t want to be lying in bed when my husband returns with our daughter. I want to be up. I want him to see that…” She paused, looking at her reflection in the mirror on the wall above the desk, her smile slightly faltering. “…that I am all right.”

The maid only bowed her head in response and moved towards the hearth to rekindle the fire. Once the flames were burning brightly, a gentle knock was heard on the nursery door. The handmaiden who had been lighting candles turned quickly to approach the door, her honey-colored hair falling loose and unbound across her shoulder, but it opened before she could answer. Her eyes widened in surprise, and she immediately bowed, along with the other handmaiden. “Your Grace,” they said in unison.

Rhaegar Targaryen stepped inside the room, still dressed in the black velvet doublet and red cloak, carrying his infant daughter in his arms. His face was hard, his mouth a tight line. His eyes met Princess Elia’s in a long gaze.

“Leave us,” she commanded her handmaidens. They bowed and quickly left the nursery.

Once the door was closed, Prince Rhaegar carried the babe over to her mother, setting the girl down in Princess Elia’s arms. The infant began to cry, and the crown princess pulled down at her robe, bringing the babe to her breast. Her cries were exchanged for the sound of contented suckling.

The prince looked down at them and a hint of a smile danced across his face. “Are you sure you don’t want to use a wet nurse? Doesn’t this tire you out? Every noble woman I’ve ever known has used a wet nurse, including my mother, the queen.”

Smiling, the princess looked up at him. “Why must we continue to have this conversation? Yes, it does make me tired, but a good kind of tired.”

Rhaegar Targaryen sighed, and grabbed a chair, bringing it closer to the mother and babe, sitting down near them.

Princess Elia watched him for a moment. “How was court? Did it go well?”

The prince then accounted in detail what had transpired in the throne room.

“Are you truly surprised?” the crown princess said in response. “After his treatment of me after our wedding?”

“She is a daughter of House Targaryen,” he said, indignation rising in his voice. “She has the blood of the dragon.”

Elia Martell nodded, lifting the infant from her chest and cradling the babe against her shoulder. “Yes, but she also has the blood of Dorne, the blood of brown people.”

“That doesn’t matter,” the prince said, his face becoming dark and angry once more.

“It does to him. You and your brother are the last pure Targaryens. There are no others, and there never will be again. Our daughter is the manifestation of this truth.” She glanced down at Rhaenys, who had gone to sleep, and made to stand, but her husband stopped her. Prince Rhaegar took the babe from her arms and carried her over to the canopied crib.

“You need to lie down as well,” the prince said when he walked back over to the princess. “The maesters said you were to stay in bed as much as possible. We leave for Dragonstone in the morning. The waters might be rough.” He helped her stand from the chair, but to her evident surprise, he lifted her in his arms and carried her over to the bed, laying her down atop the mattress.

Elia Martell watched him as he sat on the edge of the featherbed. Jon thought he looked weary and forlorn. “Will you stay in the nursery tonight?” she asked sweetly.

Prince Rhaegar hesitated, staring down at his hands. “Are you happy?” he asked in reply.

“Are you?” said the princess, her brows knitting.

The prince sighed.

Princess Elia thought for a moment. “We have become good friends, you and I, haven’t we?”

“Yes, we have.”

“Am I happy?” the princess repeated to herself. “I am surrounded by more wealth and luxury than I could ever imagine, and someday I will be queen. What other woman could ever hope for such a thing?” She paused, reaching out and laying a hand on the prince’s arm. “But more than that, you have given me a safe home away from the Red Keep, you have always been kind, and have never harmed me. And now you have given me a beautiful, healthy daughter. I’m luckier than most women.”

Prince Rhaegar turned to look at her and smiled. He then stood and leaned over, kissing her on the forehead. “Goodnight, my dear.”

The crown princess watched him turn and leave the nursery, her smile turning into a frown once the door had closed. She reached out across her bedside table and rang the bell next to the lighted candles. A moment later, her handmaidens returned and she gave them instructions for the following morning’s departure before dismissing them. Her brows furrowed in thought, she then called Myriah back to her, the black-haired maid who looked to have come from Dorne herself. Elia Martell whispered something to her that Jon could not hear, and the handmaiden left the nursery.

Princess Elia sat up in bed and moved herself to sit on the edge, straightening out her dressing gown. A few minutes later, there came a knock on the nursery door and the princess called out for the person on the other side to enter. The door opened, and in walked a beautiful young woman no older than seventeen years, slender and fair, full-breasted, with purple eyes and long dark hair that cascaded down her back.

A guard closed the nursery door after the young woman entered. She gracefully dropped to her knees. “Princess,” she said, bowing her head.

“Rise, Lady Ashara,” Elia Martell commanded her.

Bran turned to Jon. “Ser Arthur Dayne’s younger sister, a lady-in-waiting.” Jon nodded in reply, wondering how this was related to the terrible events that were soon to follow.

“I would like you to do something for me, if you are willing,” continued Princess Elia.

“I will do anything my princess asks of me,” Ashara Dayne earnestly replied.

Elia Martell considered her for a moment. “I have heard that many men of the royal court have taken a fancy to you. Are you still a maid, my lady?”

Ashara Dayne’s eyes went wide. “Yes, Your Grace. I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

“Are you yet promised to anyone?” the crown princess asked.

“No, Your Grace,” Lady Ashara said, color rising in her cheeks. “My father did not arrange a betrothal for me before he died, and my eldest brother has been preoccupied with Starfall’s lordship. He is not yet wed himself.”

Elia Martell smiled. “The prince and I will make a good match for you. I will personally see to it that you are well cared for.”

The embarrassment left the lady-in-waiting’s eyes. When she nodded, a smile broke across her face. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“But first, my request…” the princess began, pausing. Ashara Dayne gazed back expectantly, nervously playing with her fingers. “The prince… he is lonely, and unhappy. I would like you to make him happy. He will likely resist at first, but I’m sure you can gain his attentions with persistence.”

Lips parting in shock, eyes widening, Lady Ashara stared. “But, Your Grace…”

Princess Elia smiled sadly. “I want the prince to be happy. It will be better for me, and for my daughter, and ultimately the entire realm, if he is a happy man. And a frail, bedridden wife makes for poor company.”

“But the prince has many friends, Your Grace,” Ashara Dayne said, worry in her voice and etched across her features.

“The company of a woman, my sweet, innocent dove,” replied Elia Martell.

The lady-in-waiting hesitated. “But if I am to make a good match, and I am dishonored, then how…”

Reaching out her hand, Lady Ashara stepping closer and laying down her palm, the princess grasped hold and looked up the young lady-in-waiting. “Trust me, my lady. You will make a good match. The Kingsguard of Dragonstone, your brother and my uncle, are most loyal to the prince. They will not betray him, they will not betray me, and they will not betray you. If you are discreet, then whatever may happen here will not be spoken of outside these walls. The prince will be kind and gentle with you, I promise. Will you do this for me, Lady Dayne?”

The two women gazed at each other in silence.

Jon sighed. “How can she say no?”

Bran looked at him. “She can’t.”

After a few moments, the lady-in-waiting nodded in agreement and the princess smiled. Elia Martell and Ashara Dayne then suddenly faded like mist on a summer morning, and their words were drowned out by the sound of wood knocking on wood. Jon found himself standing beside Bran inside a small library.

The stone walls were different than the one they’d just left behind in the Red Keep, black and clearly built using a unique form of masonry he had never seen before. Shelves of books lined the walls. Candles were lit around the room. A fire burned in a hearth of black stone. Two tables in the shape of dragon wings sat in the middle of the room. Chairs of black oak with red velvet cushions sat at the tables and against two writing desks. Seated in one of the chairs at a table, hunched over an open book, was Rhaegar Targaryen. Several other books also lay open on the table.

“This is Dragonstone,” said Jon, looking around at the design of the library, with its wall sconces in the shape of dragon claws and archway in the form of a tail.

“Yes,” Bran replied. “In 281, early in the new year. Princess Rhaenys was presented at court last month.”

Moments later, Ashara Dayne walked beneath the dragon tail archway, gaining entrance to the library. She was dressed in a gown of deep purple silk that brought out the violet in her eyes. The prince looked up from his book, surprised. “I usually never see any of Princess Elia’s ladies in the library, and now this is the fourth time you’ve come upon me in as many weeks.”

Lady Ashara bowed, her eyes laughing. “Your Grace. I usually wait until no one is in here, so that I do not disturb. But I couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t think anyone would be in here this time of night. Then I saw my brother just outside, but I thought that if I just grabbed a book quickly and returned to the ladies’ chamber…”

“I couldn’t sleep either, my lady.” Rhaegar Targaryen motioned to the chair across from where he sat. “You can join me, if you’d like. You won’t disturb me.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” she said with a smile, taking a seat at the table. She seemed to hesitate, not knowing what to say. She watched him, once again hunched over his book, and then decided to speak. “What are you reading?”

The prince straightened up in his chair and thought for a moment. “A book of ancient prophecies.”

Lady Ashara nodded. “Have you ever read it before, Your Grace?”

“Yes, many times,” Prince Rhaegar replied. “I first read it in my youth.” He pushed the book across the table, turning it to face the lady-in-waiting, pointing to a passage towards the top of the page.

Ashara Dayne began to read aloud. _“_ A prince will be born amidst smoke and salt, beneath a bleeding star. Dragons will waken from stone and the dark eye will fall upon the prince. The minions of night will plot his destruction, conspiring betrayal. But when the darkness falls upon the world, in this dread hour the warrior will draw from the fire a burning sword, and the cold darkness shall flee from him.”

The crown prince nodded in appreciation. “You read well. I don’t suppose you have ever heard of a burning sword?”

“No, Your Grace,” Lady Ashara said. “Dawn of House Dayne might be the most famous sword in the Seven Kingdoms and has been in my House for thousands of years, but a sword of flames would be unlike anything the realm has ever seen. And it would be difficult to hide. Unless the words say one thing, but mean another. I suppose prophecies are unreliable.”

“Some, my lady, but not this one,” replied the prince.

Ashara Dayne smiled. “How do you know, Your Grace?”

Prince Rhaegar brushed his fingers over his mouth, contemplating. “Because it has happened before, the Long Night during a winter that lasted a generation, the minions of night invading Westeros, bringing famine, sickness, and death. The First Men could not defeat them, until a hero rose from among them and fought a great battle that finally ended the Long Night. It’s been foretold to happen again.”

“And this warrior prince is going to save the world?” Lady Ashara’s mouth curved into a smirk. “I don’t suppose anything else has been written about it, Your Grace? What makes you so certain any of this is true?”

“Jenny of Oldstones, wife of Prince Duncan Targaryen, brought her friend, a woods witch, with her to court,” the prince told her. “The woods witch prophesied about the prince that was promised to my grandfather, Jaehaerys. Other things she foretold while at court all came to fruition. Her words never failed.”

Ashara Dayne leaned forward in earnest. “What was the prophecy, Your Grace? Do you know what she said?”

Prince Rhaegar smiled, and Jon thought he appeared pleased to have such an audience. “The woods witch told him, ‘The prince that was promised will be born from your children’s line. He will sing the song of ice and fire, and save the realm from the long night that never ends.’ My grandfather quickly acted on those words, and arranged the marriage between my father and mother, though neither wanted it.”

The lady-in-waiting smirked again. “And you believe yourself to be this promised prince, Your Grace?”

The crown prince sighed, but said nothing in reply.

“What is the song of ice and fire?” asked Lady Ashara. “I’ve never heard of it, Your Grace.”

“Neither have I,” the prince said. “I’ve asked every minstrel I could find, I’ve written every archmaester in the Citadel. No one knows this song.”

Ashara Dayne’s eyes sparkled, and she smiled. “Perhaps no one knows it because you haven’t written it yet.”

Rhaegar Targaryen stared back at her, a look dawning on his face as if he was just seeing her for the first time. She stood from the table and walked over to a book shelf, her fingers caressing the spines, examining the titles, all the while the prince’s eyes following her. She selected a book with a green cover before turning and smiling at the crown prince. She walked back over to the table, until she stood inches from where he sat. “If you ever have any need for company,” she whispered, her fingers stroking the collar of his black doublet. “Day or night, just send for me, Your Grace.”

Prince Rhaegar stared after her intensely as she departed the library.

Jon turned to Bran. “This song of ice and fire… did he write it?”

“Yes,” Bran said. “But not with his harp. It is not a song in the way he thought it was.”

“Not an actual song? Then how can it be sung?” Jon felt frustrated. The talk of prophecies only reminded him of the red woman and the folly that had come from her unswerving belief in this promised prince. No doubt tragedy would come from such belief in the hands of someone with real power, someone like Rhaegar Targaryen.

Bran looked over at Jon, wondering if he was ready to accept the truth about himself. “You are the one who sings it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never read any Rhaegar fanfic, and I know little about most people's fanfic expectations in regards to his relationship with Elia and the nature of the events that led him to run off with Lyanna. I only know what's been said about it in canon, semi-canon sources, and even GRRM himself, who stated that Rhaegar and Elia's relationship was "complex." 
> 
> I put a lot of thought into my interpretation of that complexity, and I know that Rhaegar/Elia/Lyanna can be a polarizing topic in the fandom. Almost everyone has their own strong opinions on Rhaegar's actions and the possible reasons behind them, how Elia may have felt about it, and to what extent was Lyanna's involvement. I wanted to be fair to all parties and paint them in shades of gray, so that none are strictly "good" or "bad." I want to give the major parties involved (Rhaegar/Elia/Lyanna) the benefit of the doubt and attribute good intentions to their decisions. But I also don't want to sugarcoat the fact that those decisions caused the deaths of thousands, including their own. I feel it's important to differentiate between complicated persons making problematic choices and total human garbage undeserving of sympathy or forgiveness.


	35. The Wolf Maid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'You never knew Lyanna as I did, Robert,' Ned told him. 'You saw her beauty, but not the iron underneath.'" ~ A Game of Thrones, Eddard VII

As the scene in the library faded away, the clack of wood on wood filling his ears, Jon took in what Bran had just said to him, balking at the implications. He was no prince. He was a bastard. And as for whatever may have been prophesied for this promised prince, if he was the one who was supposed to have fulfilled those promises, to what point? He had failed. His Valyrian steel sword was lost to him. If he ever left the cave, the White Walkers would descend upon him. They would no doubt eventually find their way inside, he was sure of it.

Jon was then standing alongside Bran inside a private audience chamber. Richly embroidered rugs and wall hangings adorned the room as well as a round golden window, in front of which sat the high seat of a long wooden table. A man who looked to be forty or forty-five years walked about the room, gathering scrolls and setting books onto the table. He was tall, stately, his face stern. Servants would enter the chamber to receive commands or ask questions, and then would quickly leave. It appeared as if the household was hurriedly packing for departure.

“Where are we?”

“The Tower of the Hand, inside the Red Keep,” answered Bran. “An older member of the Kingsguard, Harlan Grandison, recently died in his sleep. King Aerys then made an announcement in the throne room that Jaime Lannister would be his replacement. The Hand of the King pretended it was a great honor, but…”

Jon watched Tywin Lannister walk about the room. “He’s furious.”

Bran nodded. “Jaime can no longer inherit lands or titles. He cannot marry and have children. House Lannister will now fall to Tyrion. Tywin has just feigned illness and resigned his position as Hand of the King. Aerys accepted. He’s now preparing to leave for Casterly Rock.”

The door to the audience chamber then opened, and in walked Ser Oswell Whent of the Kingsguard. Tywin Lannister looked up from his papers. “Are you here to observe my departure? Make sure I don’t steal any silver on my way out?”

“My lord,” the Kingsguard bowed his head. “The king has only asked that I come to provide you with any assistance you may need to leave King’s Landing.”

“Yes, how kind of him to send one of the best swords in the Seven Kingdoms to stand by and watch me pack,” Lord Tywin said dryly. “How honored you must feel to have been assigned such a difficult task.”

Ser Oswell smirked. “Truth be told, my lord, I don’t mind being away from the ki… the throne room.”

The Lord of Casterly Rock studied the Kingsguard for a moment with a penetrating gaze. His face then relaxed, and he began to walk casually about the chamber. “You are good friends with Prince Rhaegar, yes?”

“Yes, my lord,” Oswell Whent replied. “Unfortunately, I am not able to see him often now that he resides in Dragonstone. But it was a pleasure to see him last month at court, when he presented his daughter to the king and queen.”

“Yes, that is unfortunate. He will be a good king, a better king.” Tywin Lannister walked around the table, setting more scrolls aside. “The realm deserves such a king as Rhaegar. We only need patience. In time, he will rule and the Seven Kingdoms will prosper. Of course, many years may go by before we see this happen. We can only hope nothing too terrible occurs in the meantime, or healing the realm could turn into an impossible task, even for a man as good as the prince. Sometimes cruelty and madness have no cures.”

Ser Oswell averted his eyes, and appeared at odds with himself, debating whether he should speak.

“In the past, Great Councils have been called to discuss important matters concerning the Iron Throne, including regency or even forced abdication,” Lord Tywin continued, casually looking through his papers. “Prince Rhaegar could form a Great Council. It would surely be in the realm’s best interests, but I doubt a man as noble and honorable as the prince would be willing to act against his own father, even if it was the right thing to do. But the prince has many loyal friends who could support him, who could be of great service to him and to the realm, if they were willing.”

Jon turned and glanced at Bran, his brows furrowing. The former Hand of the King had not only seemed to know Oswell Whent’s esteem for Rhaegar, but also picked up on his dissatisfaction with his service to the Mad King. It was clear to Jon that Tywin Lannister wanted Aerys off the throne, that he wanted this Great Council to happen, and that he was manipulating this friend of the prince to bring it about.

The Kingsguard swallowed, hesitating. “And… if he had friends that were willing, my lord? What… what would be involved with assembling a Great Council? Just… just to discuss the current state of the realm and changes that could be made for the better?”

A hint of a smirk danced across Lord Tywin’s face. “Lords from all the Great Houses of Westeros would need to come together in one place. Not an easy task, but not an impossible one. Fear of the king's unpredictable wrath would prevent many from gathering. These great lords would need a different reason for coming together, a pretense of some sort. They couldn’t know the true reason behind it, but they would need to be compelled to attend all the same. A tourney, for instance, attracts many people, like the one I held in Lannisport in honor of the king nine years ago.”

“Few can resist a tourney, my lord, highborn and commoners alike,” replied the Kingsguard.

“It would need to be held in a place outside King’s Landing, in a central location that could be easily accessed, and large enough to host a vast crowd of people. The gold and prizes offered would need to be tempting enough to bring as many lords and knights as possible. It wouldn’t be wise for me to play host, as the king has become suspicious of everything I do. It shouldn’t be held in the Westerlands either.” The former Hand of the King stared out the round gold-tinted window for a moment, before turning back to address the Kingsguard. “Your elder brother is the Lord of Harrenhal, yes?” Tywin Lannister asked casually, yet a steely glint shone in his eyes.

Ser Oswell gave him a look of surprise. “Yes, my lord. Harrenhal is large, to be sure, but I’m afraid my brother has not the gold to host a tourney so grand.”

Lord Tywin nodded. “True, Lord Whent does not have enough gold for such a tourney. But I can think of someone who does. At the next available opportunity, pay a visit to your brother in the Riverlands. Tell him if he will agree to play the host, everything will be supplied for.”

The Kingsguard stared, as if debating his response. But then Oswell Whent took a step forward, dignified, correct. “I will ride tomorrow, my lord.”

*****

Tywin Lannister and Ser Oswell faded from before Jon’s eyes, and then he was standing with Bran inside Dragonstone’s nursery. The babe Rhaenys slept in her canopied crib, the handmaidens were gone from the room, and Elia Martell sat in a chair opposite Ashara Dayne. There was a sense of intimacy between them as the two women conversed. Jon thought the princess appeared to be in much better health than the last time he had seen her. She wore a clinging gown of green silk with lace sleeves, elegant and refined, and sipped from a glass of red wine.

“How often does the prince send for you?” asked Princess Elia.

“He doesn’t explicitly send for me, Your Grace,” Lady Ashara replied. “But if Prince Lewyn is stationed outside his chamber, instead of Arthur, then I just… know.”

The princess thought for a moment. “And how often does this occur, my lady?”

Ashara Dayne sighed. “Only three times in as many weeks, Your Grace. He mostly wants to talk about books, and about my House, and tales of my brother’s sword. Only after conversation is exhausted, and after some persuasion on my part, is the prince willing to…” Color rose in her cheeks, and she averted her eyes.

Elia Martell fought back a grin, pursing her lips. “So… you’re telling me that my husband is more interested in prophecies and ancient tales than the intimate charms of a woman. This is not strange to me. When he finally stops talking about his books, how is he? Is he gentle? Rough?”

“Your Grace…” Lady Ashara stopped speaking, and flushed, embarrassed. “The prince is ever so kind, and has never scared me or hurt me.”

“But is he excited, hungry with lust?” asked the princess. “Does he take you in his arms and whisper sweet words? Does he kiss you on the mouth, with passion?”

The lady-in-waiting shook her head. “No, Your Grace, none of those things. It is more dutiful than anything. Even when the prince…” Ashara Dayne paused, her face flushed.

Princess Elia gave her an encouraging nod. “Go on, my lady. You may speak freely.”

Lady Ashara pursed her lips, nodding. “When the prince shudders in release, I do not think it matters that I am the one sharing his bed. Even in those last moments of pleasure, he seems… sad. He then rolls over and goes to sleep. I depart his chambers, and I don’t think I’ve left him happier than before I arrived. I’m not sure my presence made a difference. Perhaps I am doing something wrong, Princess. I don’t want you to be displeased.”

Elia Martell nodded silently and reached for her glass of wine. It seemed to Jon that he could almost feel the relief pouring off her. After taking a sip, she spoke. “Yes. Dutiful. I suppose that is just his way.” The princess sighed, and set her glass back down on the desk. “You are doing nothing wrong, my lady. I will continue to pray to the gods to bless the prince with love and laughter. I will not give up hope. We all know what his father has become. I do not want the same for him.”

Ashara Dayne nodded in understanding. The princess then dismissed her, and sat watching her walk towards the nursery door. When the lady-in-waiting’s hand grasped hold of the latch, she was called back.

“One more thing, my lady,” Princess Elia said casually, yet there was a sudden hardness to her tone, like steel armor underneath fine silk. “It would be most embarrassing, and dishonoring, not to mention most difficult to keep secret, should the unwed daughter of House Dayne suddenly grow with child.”

“Your Grace, I… he…” Ashara Dayne’s face flushed red with embarrassment, and she nervously played with the sash of her blue silk dress. “The prince spills his seed on my belly, Your Grace.”

“Every time?” the princess asked, arching her brow.

The lady-in-waiting paused briefly and swallowed, hesitating. “Yes, my princess. Every time.”

Elia Martell nodded, her face hard, matching her tone of voice. “Very well. The seed is strong. We were not wed a fortnight before I was with child. I am sure you have a lovely belly, my lady. Allow the prince to make use of it whenever he wishes. Deny him nothing, but make sure his seed falls nowhere else.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Ashara Dayne bowed her head, and turned to leave the nursery, stepping towards the door. As it opened, Jon saw her face had become troubled. A moment later she was gone, the door closing behind her.

Princess Elia and the nursery faded away like wisps of dissipating mist, and once again Jon was standing with Bran inside Dragonstone’s library. Rhaegar Targaryen sat at one of the tables the shape of dragon’s wings, quill in hand, with ink and parchment on the table in front of him. Arthur Dayne paced around the room, first standing in front of a book shelf, examining the titles, and then moving to the windows, gazing outside.

“A red comet was seen in the sky last night,” the prince spoke as he wrote. “It will no doubt be there again tonight. I wonder if Aemon will have seen it up there on the Wall.”

“By the time your letter reaches Castle Black, it will have gone, I imagine,” Ser Arthur replied.

Jon turned to Bran. “He corresponded with Maester Aemon of the Night’s Watch?”

Bran nodded. “Yes, for many years.”

After a few moments passed, Prince Lewyn entered the library, passing underneath the dragon tail archway, accompanied by Oswell Whent. Prince Rhaegar looked up from his parchment, smiling at the sight of them. “Ser Oswell!” The prince stood up from the table to greet the Kingsguard. “This is a surprise. I was not expecting you. What brings you to Dragonstone?”

“Your Grace.” Oswell Whent smiled, and bowed his head. He then held up a scroll in his hand. “I have come with news.”

“Good news, I hope.” Prince Rhaegar took the scroll and opened it. Jon watched him read, noticed a slight smile breaking across his face. A moment later he looked up from the scroll, and turned to Arthur Dayne. “Lord Walter Whent is putting on a tourney at Harrenhal.”

Ser Arthur smiled. “It’s been quite some time since we had a decent tourney. Nice of Old Lord Whent to provide one.”

The prince examined the letter again. “He’s offering rewards thrice the amount than the tourney Tywin Lannister put on honoring the birth of Viserys. Lord Walter certainly is rich, but I would think he had not the gold for prizes so lavish.”

“Yes, well…” Oswell Whent cleared his throat. “My brother wants to show off his massive castle and his fine sons, and honor his fair daughter. No expense is being spared, he tells me.”

Arthur Dayne smiled appreciatively. “With rewards such as those, every lord and knight in the realm will no doubt attend. Who would pass up such an opportunity for glory?”

“We could use some excitement, Your Grace,” Prince Lewyn said.

Rhaegar Targaryen nodded, his mouth curved into a slight smirk as he once again looked down at the scroll containing Lord Whent’s announcement. “Yes, Dragonstone is not as exciting as Sunspear, as I’m often reminded.”

The Kingsguard exchanged knowing looks and amusement flitted across their faces, but they said nothing in reply. A moment later, Elia Martell walked into the library, and they all turned at her entrance. She bowed her head silently and moved across the room to stand in front of a window, gazing out at the world beyond, before turning and facing them. She wore a gown of ivory silk so sheer and fine that the midday sunlight shone right through to reveal her olive skin underneath and the dark apex between her legs.

Prince Rhaegar stared, before turning to glance at the Kingsguard. Prince Lewyn pursed his lips, nodding with a smirk, but Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell had averted their eyes, clearly uncomfortable. The prince turned back to his wife. “Princess, are you playing that game again?”

“What game, my prince?” Elia Martell asked casually.

“The ‘how quickly can I make the white knights turn red’ game,” said Prince Rhaegar.

Princess Elia scoffed. “I am sure they’ve seen it all before, my dear. There are no secrets between the royal family and the Kingsguard, or so I have often been told.”

Rhaegar Targaryen sighed and nodded in acceptance. “Yet some mystery should be desired.” He smiled. “You’re looking well.”

“I feel well today.” The princess looked around the library, a slight frown upon her face. “You know, Your Grace, most men find a variety of amusements to fill their time. They attend feasts, tourneys, go out on hunting parties, travel, and generally have a wide range of interests. And then there’s you, perfectly content with your nose stuck in a book.”

“You must have forgotten that I also play the harp, Princess,” replied the prince, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Jon glanced between them, and then over at Bran, who grinned.

Elia Martell smirked. “Yes. When you’re king, you can spend your time singing for the small council. The realm will surely prosper.”

Rhaegar Targaryen, tongue in cheek, fought back a smile. “Is there anything in particular that brings you to the library today, my dear?”

“Well, yes… I was hoping that… now that I am improving somewhat, if we might be able to make a trip to Dorne, to see my family. I would like Rhaenys to see the Water Gardens.” Princess Elia looked intently at her husband, her expression hopeful.

“She is only a babe, not yet four months,” the prince said. “How would she benefit from the Water Gardens? Besides, I suspect your family may be traveling north before too long. Oberyn certainly will.”

Elia Martell gave him a surprised look. “My brother? For what?”

Prince Rhaegar held up the scroll. “I’ve found an amusement outside the library, so I hope you’re pleased. A tourney at Harrenhal, two months hence. I’m sure we shall all meet in the Riverlands, and then you will enjoy the company of your brother. And when the tourney comes to an end, perhaps he won’t mind accompanying us back to Dragonstone, where he can stay for as long as he wishes.”

The princess gave him a smile as warm as the sunrise, and walked away from the window, the absence of direct sunlight returning some mystery to her ivory gown. She approached the prince and laid a hand on his arm. She leaned close and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Will you come to the marriage bed tonight?” she whispered. “It’s been too long.”

Prince Rhaegar looked down at her, their eyes meeting, and he nodded, giving her a faint smile. Princess Elia then departed the library, the prince staring after the princess for a moment before turning back to the Kingsguard. It seemed to Jon that Elia Martell and Rhaegar Targaryen got along rather well, and their marriage, though perhaps not romantic, was a happy union. So why did the prince choose Lyanna Stark?

“I want to see my mother,” he said.

“We are about to,” Bran replied. “At Harrenhal.”

Jon shook his head. “No. I want to see her _before_ Harrenhal. Before _him_.”

Bran sighed, thinking for a moment. “All right,” he said.

*****

Rhaegar and the Kingsguard immediately began to fade, their voices drowned out by the clack of wood on wood ringing inside Jon’s ears. Then all at once he was back home again. The castle courtyard was bustling, men and women going about their work, children carrying water and firewood. A young man with broad shoulders and large brown whiskers on his face walked out of the armory, sword girded at his hip, speaking with a blacksmith.

“Winterfell,” said Jon, sadness filling his voice. “That’s Ser Rodrik, and Mikken.”

“Yes,” Bran said.

Voices called out from the gatehouse, Jon and Bran turning towards the great main gates, and then into the courtyard rode a white horse, a young maiden sitting in the saddle dressed in boy’s clothing. She looked to be no older than fourteen years, with brown eyes and long dark hair falling loose and unbound, and slightly tangled by the wind. Despite appearing wild and boyish, she was a pretty girl. She rode well, her horse obeying every silent command. For a brief second, Jon could almost have believed the girl was Arya. But he knew she was not.

“That’s my mother,” Jon whispered. He thought back to the dreams he used to have, the dreams of the mother he never knew, a highborn girl with a beautiful face and kind eyes. There she was right in front of him, smiling and confident atop her white horse, and for a moment he wanted to weep.

Bran watched as Jon Snow stared at the girl as if mesmerized. He suddenly thought of pale blue roses and rubies scattering in the swirling waters of a river, sadness clutching at his heart.

An older man wearing grey robes and a maester’s chain around his neck came rushing out into the courtyard. “Lady Lyanna, come down from that horse at once. Your lord father has been asking for you this past hour.”

“He should have known I was out riding,” Lyanna grumbled, before dismounting her horse and handing the reins to a servant.

“Yes, well, we have had a surprise this morning, my lady,” the maester replied. “Your brother, Eddard, has come home from the Vale.”

Instantly, Lyanna Stark’s face brightened. “Ned!” Smiling, she ran ahead of the maester towards the Great Keep.

Jon eagerly followed her, entering the Great Keep with Bran. “When is this? When are we?”

“We are about one year before the tourney at Harrenhal,” answered Bran. “Lyanna will be celebrating her fourteenth name day a week from now.”

“And why did you choose this day?” Jon asked, walking along the stone wall, following the girl who would become his mother. “What happened?”

Bran nodded his head toward the girl in front of them. “You will see.”

They followed Lyanna until they reached the solar near the audience chamber. She knocked and then opened the door. Seated at the table were a man with brown hair and grey eyes, who looked to be forty or forty-five years. He had a quiet dignity, and a long, stern face. Jon had never seen the man before, but he had seen his tomb in the crypts, with the stone direwolf at his feet. Also at the table sat a young man, about seventeen years of age, with light brown hair that fell to his shoulders, which he kept pulled back from his face.

Jon felt his throat tighten, and hot tears prick his eyes, as he watched a young Eddard Stark. “Father,” he whispered. Turning, Bran gazed at Jon Snow, attempting to reconcile everything he knew about the past, the present, and what he could only guess about the future. He thought of his youth in Winterfell, the life he’d led with Jon and his other siblings. How much of that life made up Jon’s true identity, more so than a name or even blood?

Upon sight of his sister, Eddard smiled and stood up from the table.

“Ned!” Lyanna walked quickly toward her elder brother, and they embraced warmly.

“It’s about time you came, girl,” Lord Rickard Stark said, his face and voice stern. Yet Jon caught a glint of amusement in his grandfather’s eyes. “Your brother rode through the gates over an hour ago.”

Before Lyanna could say anything in return, the maester entered the solar, closing the door behind him. Lord Rickard exchanged a look with the maester, and then nodded. Eddard glanced between them, gave his sister a hesitant smile, and then returned to his seat. Lyanna stood watching the maester take the chair next to her father, yet she did not approach the table.

Rickard Stark stared at his daughter. “Sit down, Lyanna. There is something we need to discuss.”

Lyanna looked to her brother for support, and he nodded, giving her a small smile. She slowly stepped forward, taking the seat across the table from her father. Sitting in silence, nervously playing with her fingers as she glanced at the men around the table, she waited for someone to speak.

“Ned has returned from the Vale with a marriage proposal,” Lord Rickard said.

“Did he, now?” Lyanna smirked at her brother, her eyes dancing with laughter, her foot gently kicking at his beneath the table. “And who will you be marrying, then?”

Eddard looked down at the table, his hands entwined, and did not answer.

Rickard Stark sighed. “Your brother’s friend, Robert Baratheon, the young Lord of Storm’s End, has apparently come to love you from afar and has asked for your hand in marriage. I have accepted. Maester Walys has already sent the raven with my reply. We’ll announce your betrothal at your name day feast, and set the wedding date sometime during your sixteenth year. Lord Robert is keen to have you as soon as possible, but he’ll just have to wait.”

Jon had watched Lyanna through this exchange, watched her face turn from amusement to shock to anger. Her face had become harder and harder, until she was clenching her jaw so tightly, Jon thought she might grind her teeth down to the flesh. “I won’t marry him,” she declared in iron tones.

Lord Rickard’s face hardened. “You will do as I say.”

The maester gave her a sympathetic look. “Lady Lyanna, alliances with powerful southern Houses will only serve to benefit House Stark. You must see the good in this, just as your lord father has seen it. Lord Brandon will wed Lady Catelyn of House Tully, and you will wed Lord Robert.”

Lyanna stood up from the table in wordless fury, angry tears filling her eyes. “Am I nothing more than chattel to be bought and sold?” she said to them, her voice thick with emotion. “Have I no say in my own life?”

“You listen here, daughter,” said Rickard Stark, pointing at her. His face had also become angry, his voice like steel, in a tone that brooked no argument. “Robert Baratheon is Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. He is also your brother’s friend. Ned has vouched for his character, his honor, and so has Jon Arryn. That is good enough for me, and it will be good enough for you. You are the daughter of the North. You will do your duty to the North. You will do your duty to your House. You will do your duty to your father. You _will_ obey me.”

Lyanna turned and looked at Eddard, her fists clenching, lips trembling. “This is all your fault.” Without another word, she turned and ran from the solar as the tears began to fall, slamming the door shut behind her.

Eddard stared helplessly at the door, his shoulders slumping, while Lord Rickard rubbed his hand across his forehead and heaved a sigh. “Gods be damned, that girl is stubborn, and too willful for her own good. She has too much of the wolf blood in her, just like Brandon.”

“I will go to her, Father,” Eddard said, standing up from his chair. “It will be all right once I’ve spoken with her.”

Jon and Bran then followed him through the keep, up the granite stairs that led to the family chambers, until he was standing outside an oak door. With a start, Jon realized that this door had once belonged to Arya. Or, rather, that it _would_ belong to Arya, years from now. Eddard knocked on the door and announced his presence. A moment later, the door opened, Lyanna allowing him entrance inside.

Seated on the edge of the featherbed, Eddard sat beside his sister. “Please don’t be upset. You knew that you would be wed one day. And Father isn’t sending you off with some stranger. Robert is my closest friend. He is like family to me, and I to him.”

Lyanna shook her head. “We haven’t met above twice in my life. Robert does not _know_ me, Ned. How can he love someone he does not even know?”

Eddard gave her a kind smile. “He truly does care for you, sister. He said for me to tell you that he is so smitten with your beauty that he cannot sleep at night. He will never harm you, or mistreat you. He will be a good husband to you.”  

“Robert will never keep to one bed,” Lyanna replied, contempt in her voice. “I hear he has gotten a child on some girl in the Vale.”

Sighing, Eddard looked down at his hands. “Yes, it’s true. I won’t lie to you. The child’s name is Mya. Her mother is a commoner.”

Lyanna closed her eyes, pursing her lips. “I have nothing against the babe, Ned, or the girl. But Robert…”

“Whatever Robert has done before your betrothal is of no matter now,” said Eddard. “He is a good man and true. He will love you with all his heart.”

Lyanna smiled, and it seemed to Jon that she was looking at her brother with sympathy. “Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man’s nature. Brandon still carries on with Barbrey Ryswell, despite his betrothal. Do you honestly believe our brother will be faithful to Catelyn Tully once they’re wed? Do you think his nature will change? The same is true of Robert.”

Eddard frowned. “There is more to Brandon’s nature than his women. Does that make us love him any less? He is a good brother to us. He is a good son, and a good friend. Catelyn Tully will have a safe home here in Winterfell. Brandon will be good to her, and he’ll never harm her. You will have a safe home, too. Robert will love and protect you and give you children. In the end, that is what matters. Besides, you’ve always wanted to travel south and see new places. You’ll live near the sea, and close to the Kingswood. You’ll have horses to ride and every other good thing you could want. You’ll be close to the capital, and will enjoy the entertainment it offers. Robert will take you to court for special occasions and parade you in front of his cousins in the royal family. It may not seem like it right now, but you can be happy in Storm’s End.”

Lyanna said nothing in reply, and stared down at her hands as she played with her fingers. Jon noticed her set jaw, her hardened expression.

“Brandon may not want to wed Catelyn Tully, but he will do his duty,” said Eddard, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. “You will do your duty. And when the time comes, I will do my duty. There is honor in that, and pride. Take heart, sister. Things will be all right. You’ll see.” He then stood up from the bed and walked towards her chamber door.

“Ned.” Lyanna looked at him as he turned back to face her. Tears welled up in her eyes, and she gave him a half smile. “You will be a good husband. You’ll be faithful and true to the woman you love, I know you will. You’ll be a good father, too.”

Eddard smiled awkwardly and averted his eyes, his cheeks coloring. “But not too soon, I hope,” he said, grinning at her. He then opened the chamber door and left.

Jon watched as Lyanna’s face fell, the tears in her eyes brimming over. She turned to lay on the featherbed, putting her back to the door. Heart sinking within him, he wanted nothing more than to comfort her, to put his arms around her and dry her tears. A few moments later, there was a gentle knock on the door, which opened without waiting for a response. A boy who looked no older than twelve or thirteen years entered the chamber. After shutting the door behind him, he walked towards the bed. He knew the boy must be his uncle Benjen.

“Leave me alone, Ben,” Lyanna said tearfully, without ever turning to see who had come into her chamber.

“Lya… Brandon says you’re to marry Robert Baratheon.” Benjen Stark moved close to the bed and sat down on the edge, and stared at his sister’s back as she lay curled up on the mattress. “Must you really leave Winterfell?”

Lyanna said nothing for a moment, succumbing to her tears. After a few moments, she took a deep shuddering breath and then spoke. “Father says I must.”

Benjen pursed his lips, playing with his fingers. “Will you take me with you, when you go?”

Sitting up, red-faced and sniffling, Lyanna stared at her younger brother. “You want to come with me?”

“Brandon is the heir to Winterfell,” said Benjen. “Ned will marry some highborn lady or other. Father might give them land or he’ll be the lord of her castle. I’ll eventually have to leave Winterfell, too. I’ll tell our lord father that I can go with you to Storm’s End so you don’t have to go alone. I’ll keep you company, and protect you from those southerners.”

Her face crumpling, Lyanna reached for her brother and hugged him tightly, tears streaming down her face. “Thank you,” she whispered through her tears.

Jon watched as the scene began to fade, Lyanna and Benjen Stark’s embrace disappearing like mist before the dawn. The Great Hall of Winterfell rose before them as quickly as his mother and uncle had faded. The hall was hazy with smoke, the fire in the hearth sputtered and crackled loudly, adding a warm glow to the large room. Torches and candles had been lit. The grey stone walls were draped with banners, white and gold, with the grey direwolf of House Stark and the black crowned stag of House Baratheon.

The Great Hall rang with music, musicians playing harps and pipes while singers recited ballads, the noise of pewter plates and tankards, and the low hum of countless drunken conversations punctuated by bursts of laughter. Servants were busy at work, carrying platters of sweets and opening casks of summerwine, transferring their contents into large flagons. Bran pointed to the end of the hall where, upon the raised platform, Lord Rickard Stark hosted two young men, tall and broad-shouldered, clean-shaven, with black hair and bright blue eyes, and strong, square jawlines. The eldest of the two, though no older than eighteen years, laughed and drank his ale heartily. The younger appeared rather solemn and joyless.

“Robert and Stannis Baratheon,” Jon said, as he began to move closer to the raised platform. On the other side of Lord Rickard sat his children, Brandon, Eddard, Lyanna, and Benjen. Save the girl who would become his mother, they all appeared to be enjoying the festivities.

Bran nodded as he walked beside him. “We are late in the year 280. They’ve come to Winterfell for the harvest feast, and to celebrate the future joining of their Houses.”

From bits and pieces of overheard conversations Jon picked up on has he passed the benches, he knew that Princess Elia Martell was expected to give birth to her child at any moment and that Rickard Stark’s bannermen were eager for the time when King Aerys would be gone and Rhaegar would sit the throne. One had even grumbled about an alliance that House Targaryen had once made with House Stark, its terms not having been fully abided by, while another openly wished for northern independence. But Jon paid the guests no mind.

When Bran and Jon reached the raised platform, it was evident that Robert Baratheon had had his fair share of drink. Every time he roared with laughter, Rickard Stark would grin while Brandon and Eddard chuckled, but Lyanna’s face only grew harder. While the summerwine was being served, the food was cleared and the tables and benches were suddenly shoved back against the walls. Lord Rickard stepped off the platform to speak with the musicians, and the music then grew louder, the drummers and fiddlers joining in, and the singer began belting “The Bear And The Maiden Fair.”

Robert Baratheon jumped to his feet and bounded off the raised platform, goading Eddard to join him. Jon watched as his lord father flushed and shook his head. Brandon Stark laughed and followed Robert down to the floor as Lyanna and Benjen looked on. The floor of the Great Hall filled with eager dancers. The Lord of Storm’s End seized a plump serving girl, and spun her into his arms, the flagon of wine in her hands falling to the floor and shattering. When the singer reached the part in the song where the bear lifts the maid high into the air, he twirled the girl and lifted her into the air, the sounds of her squealing laughter competing with the music.

When the song ended, Robert Baratheon quickly found a seat and dandled the serving girl on his lap. He began nuzzling her neck while his hands went exploring the bodice of her brown wool dress. Jon watched as Lyanna turned and gazed at Eddard, who also turned to meet her eyes. She gave him a contemptuous look. Without a word spoken between them, Eddard then stood up from the table and walked off the raised platform. Jon saw him approach Brandon Stark, whisper something in his ear, and the two moved towards Lord Robert. Each Stark brother took the young lord by an elbow and marched him out of the Great Hall.

Jon turned and saw Lyanna glance at Benjen before the two of them hurried off the platform, running through the dancing couples and following their elder brothers out of the hall. Jon and Bran went after them, and made it all the way to the courtyard, where they saw Lyanna and Benjen standing in front of the great main gates.

“We want to go to the winter town,” Lyanna said to a Winterfell guard.

“Certainly not, milady,” the guard replied, his voice brimming with amusement. “At this time of night, and without your maester or your brothers? Are you off your pretty little head? Now go back to the keep before I tell your lord father.”

Lyanna’s eyes blazed. “Our brothers are _in_ the winter town, Kyle. We are only going _to_ them.”

The guard only shook his head, his mouth curving into a grin. “Your brothers are men grown. I can’t let the young wolf pups outside the castle walls at night. You know Lord Rickard’s orders just as well as I do, milady.”

Huffing, Lyanna turned on her heel and walked off toward the stables, Benjen following behind her. As they passed the armory, they heard guards calling out from the gatehouse. Lord Eddard was returning to the castle. Immediately, she turned back, she and Benjen hurrying towards the main gates. Jon and Bran walked behind them, coming to a stop as Eddard walked beneath the arched gate and into the courtyard. He bestowed a faint smile on his younger siblings, and then quickly turned as he caught sight of a man approaching from the direction of the Great Hall. Although no older than sixteen years, he was tall and powerfully built, with thick black hair.

“Stannis,” said Eddard in greeting. “Have you grown tired of the feast?”

“Yes, quite.” Stannis Baratheon looked over at Lyanna and Benjen, giving them a polite nod of his head. “I’m ready to retire to the Guest House.” He frowned. “Where’s Robert?”

Eddard glanced between Stannis and his siblings, hesitating. “He’s with Brandon at the Smoking Log. It’s an alehouse in the winter town. It also serves as an inn.”

Lyanna crossed her arms, her face hard as she glared at her elder brother. “It’s where the whores go.”

Stannis snorted, and gave the young lady an approving look. “Robert will be there all night, then.” He looked over at Eddard. “I see you’re not with him. Don’t you want to spend your night among tavern wenches as well?”

Shaking his head, Eddard sighed. “No. I drank half a pint of ale with Robert and Brandon, and then left.”

Frowning, Lyanna bowed towards Stannis. “My lord.” She then walked off back toward the stables, Benjen running off after her.

Once the younger Starks were out of sight, Stannis stepped closer. “Ned, I suggest you retrieve Robert and bring him back to the castle as soon as possible. He won’t listen to me.”

“He doesn’t listen to me much, either,” Eddard chuckled.

“For the sake of your sister, you should at least try. How would it look if Robert were to leave a bastard in the winter town when he’s betrothed to Lady Stark of Winterfell? Are you going to allow Robert to dishonor your House without so much as a word?”

Eddard’s face hardened. “I did try. You know he always gets his way. He loves my sister more than anything, but you know how he is, especially when he drinks.”

Stannis frowned. “Robert speaks of your sister constantly. I know he is eager to marry her. We both know he enjoys the company of women. _‘Men have needs, Stannis.’_ Long betrothals must be wearisome. I’ll take my leave of you. I am sure we will see each other in the morning.” He then walked off toward the Guest House.

Wanting to know what his mother was doing, Jon turned and left Eddard standing in the courtyard near the great main gates. When was his lord father ever able to refuse Robert Baratheon anything? Perhaps he should have, all those years ago when Robert returned to Winterfell as king and asked Lord Eddard to be his Hand. So much suffering and grief could have been spared.

Soon, Jon and Bran approached the stables, and stepped inside to find Lyanna and Benjen. She was brushing the mane and neck of her white horse while the youngest Stark fed a carrot to a black gelding.

“Robert is tall and powerful and brave,” said Benjen. “He performs well in tourney jousts and melees. And I heard some of the serving girls say he’s handsome. Isn’t that what all ladies want in their husbands?”

“He’s a handsome fool,” Lyanna said bitterly. She turned to look at her younger brother. “Yes, he’s tall and strong and brave, and muscled like a silly maid’s fantasy. But his bravery is steeped in stupidity. He’s proud and full of drunken bravado.”

Benjen pursed his lips. “Father says everyone partakes of more than is good for them at a feast and that most men are fools when they’ve had drink. Robert is the lord of a castle, which means you’ll be the mistress of a castle of your own. Ned says it’s right on the coast and you can watch the waves of the narrow sea. And I’ll be sure to be there with you when you go, so you won’t ever be alone. You’ll be Robert’s wife and you’ll have children who will grow up to be lords and ladies.”

Lyanna sighed, her fingers stroking the white coat of her mare. “I want more than that, Ben. I want more out of life. I want adventure, I want excitement, and not just a man who’s brave and strong, but gentle too. I want… I want someone who loves me as I love him.”

“Robert Baratheon loves you,” Benjen replied innocently. “He keeps saying so. And he’s willing to wait until your sixteenth year to wed you. Not many lords would wait so long, I think.”

“He loves me while he beds whores and tavern wenches, and fathers bastards,” Lyanna murmured.

Jon felt his guts twist and tighten as the sound of derision in her voice. How must she have felt about becoming a mother to a bastard herself? A bastard born of rape, no less, motherhood forced upon her unwillingly by a married prince who kept her locked up in a tower? Daenerys had said it wasn’t true, that her brother would never have done such a thing, but what did she truly know of Rhaegar? He was dead before she was born. Yet something told him Daenerys may be right, as nothing he had seen of Rhaegar Targaryen revealed him to be a cruel, violent man.

Lyanna caught sight of something, a smile breaking out across her face. She walked quickly over to the wall and picked up a small canvas sack. She brought it over and offered it to her brother.

“What are you doing?” Benjen asked.

“I think we owe Robert a shit surprise,” said Lyanna, giggling.

Laughing, Benjen took the canvas sack and held it open. Lyanna then grabbed a small shovel and started to climb over her horse’s stall. “You’re going to ruin your dress,” he said.

Lyanna looked down at her grey wool dress trimmed in white, the Stark colors. “I don’t care about my dress!” She hopped down into the stall, her boots landing in straw and muck. “The Others can take this dress,” she swore under her breath. She then scooped some of the horse’s dung and lifted the shovel over the top wooden plank. Benjen stepped forward with the canvas sack and she emptied the shovel into it, before climbing back over the stall and laying the shovel aside.

The Stark siblings laughed and ran out of the stables, and made for the kitchen. Benjen remained outside while Lyanna entered, but she soon returned with a small knife along with needle and thread. Then they ran through the courtyard, past the kennels and the Library Tower, Jon and Bran following behind them. They reached the Guest House, bypassing smirking Winterfell guards as they ran inside. Jon followed his mother and uncle, walking past the morning room, up the torch-lit stairwell until they reached the top floor and came to the lord’s bedchamber. With Robert Baratheon absent, and in the winter town, the guards he brought with him from the Stormlands were absent as well and no doubt still enjoying the harvest feast with the other guests.

Lyanna quietly opened the oak door. The Guest House’s lord’s chamber was large and richly furnished, dominated by a featherbed with carved bedposts and draperies done up in Baratheon black and gold, courtesy of Lord Rickard Stark for their honored guest. An embroidered carpet covered the plank floor, and a tall shuttered window opened to the godswood. There was a fire burning in the stone hearth, and candles lit atop the bedside table.

Moving quickly towards the featherbed, Lyanna threw back the bedclothes. Once the covers and linen sheets had been pulled back, she took out the knife and cut a hole into the mattress. She then nodded at Benjen, who stepped forward and dumped the canvas sack’s contents inside the hole, before tossing the sack into the fireplace. Taking out her needle and thread, Lyanna sewed the hole shut. The Stark siblings then flipped the mattress and remade the bed. Giggling under their breath, they left the lord’s chamber just as quickly as they had entered it, quietly shutting the door behind them.

Jon couldn’t help but laugh. “Arya used to pull that prank on Sansa whenever she was angry.”

“She was angry with Sansa a lot,” Bran replied, smiling.

The scene in front of them began to fade, the clacking sound of wood on wood in Jon’s ears, and another one rose in its place. He was standing beside Bran inside the Great Keep’s Small Hall. It wasn’t near the size of the Great Hall, which could seat five hundred, but it was large enough for the Stark household to take their meals together. Brandon, Eddard, Lyanna, and Benjen sat around a long table with Rodrik Cassel and Maester Walys, while fifty of Winterfell’s guards filled the benches of the other tables.

Rickard Stark then entered the Small Hall. Walys and Ser Rodrick stood along with the guards, all wearing heavy cloaks of grey wool and the direwolf sigil sewn on their chests. “Be seated,” Lord Rickard said to them. He signaled for the meal to begin.

Jon and Bran watched as Old Nan and the other servants passed around platters of kidney pie and roast lamb. Rickard Stark took the high seat at the family table, placing a scroll down in front of him. “There is going to be a tourney in the Riverlands,” he said as a servant poured wine into his silver goblet that had a lifelike head of a snarling direwolf raised on the side. Jon recognized the cup. When he was a child, it had belonged to his lord father. The last time he had seen it, he had been sitting beside Sansa in Winterfell’s Great Hall.

Instantly, Brandon Stark reached for the scroll, reading it for himself. “The prizes that Lord Whent is offering! Knights from all over the realm will attend to joust and feast at Harrenhal. It’s a grand castle, the largest in the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Are you going to joust, Brandon?” asked Benjen.

“Certainly,” the heir to Winterfell replied, smiling. “What knight could turn this opportunity down? I imagine Robert Baratheon will attend, Ned.”

Eddard nodded. “He never passes up the chance to enter a melee.”

Lord Rickard smiled at his youngest son. “Brandon will surely joust for the glory of House Stark.”

“It’s not fair that only men get to joust,” Lyanna grumbled.

“Only knights and lords are allowed,” said Rickard Stark. “But high lords and smallfolk alike enjoy the tourneys. You may not be able to joust, but you can attend with your brothers.”

Lyanna stared at her father, and after a moment the darkness left her eyes. “You mean I can go to the tourney at Harrenhal?” When he nodded, a smile as bright as sunshine broke across her face.

Jon and Bran exchanged knowing looks as the scene in front of them faded away like the morning dew.


	36. The Knight Of The Laughing Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Rhaegar had chosen Lyanna Stark of Winterfell. Barristan Selmy would have made a different choice. Not the queen, who was not present. Nor Elia of Dorne, though she was good and gentle; had she been chosen, much war and woe might have been avoided. His choice would have been a young maiden not long at court, one of Elia's companions ... though compared to Ashara Dayne, the Dornish princess was a kitchen drab.
> 
> Even after all these years, Ser Barristan could still recall Ashara's smile, the sound of her laughter. He had only to close his eyes to see her, with her long dark hair tumbling about her shoulders and those haunting purple eyes. _Daenerys has the same eyes._ Sometimes when the queen looked at him, he felt as if he were looking at Ashara's daughter...
> 
> But Ashara's daughter had been stillborn, and his fair lady had thrown herself from a tower soon after, mad with grief for the child she had lost, and perhaps for the man who had dishonored her at Harrenhal as well. She died never knowing that Ser Barristan had loved her. ... _If I had unhorsed Rhaegar and crowned Ashara queen of love and beauty, might she have looked to me instead of Stark?"_ ~ A Dance with Dragons, The Kingbreaker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all my readers for waiting patiently for an update. This summer was crazy busy and then I was all wrapped up in the new Game of Thrones season. Speaking of which, the remainder of this fic will not take S7 canon into consideration. That'll have to be saved for another story, which I'm already putting together an outline for. It'll be entitled, "The Lies We Tell For Love," so keep a lookout for that once this story is finished. There are only a few chapters left to write, so hopefully I'll get the new fic out there before too long. Thanks again for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos! I appreciate all the encouragement. I hope you enjoy the chapter.

Dany sat upon the furs close to the cookfire while Meera Reed worked over the iron pot. She thought the girl from the Neck had said something about fish stew, but she hadn’t really been listening. Other than the fire, no other light was inside the cave. Across the cavern sat Jon Snow and his brother, Bran Stark. _I guess they aren’t truly brothers anymore._ While Jon’s eyes were closed, the milky white of Bran’s seemed to glow eerily from where he sat on his weirwood throne. She didn’t know what they were doing. She considered asking the swamp girl, but then abandoned the idea. What did it matter? They were all going to die inside this cave.

Against the cavern wall behind her, Dany noticed a small cloth sack. She reached for it and pulled it towards her. Looking inside the sack, she found shiny black arrowheads as well as daggers. She picked up a small arrowhead and held it in her palm, running her fingers over the slick surface. It felt smooth like glass.

Meera glanced over at her. “Obsidian blades. Dragonglass. It can kill White Walkers. Not much else can.”

“My Hand, Tyrion Lannister, promised Jon Snow to send shipments of it to Winterfell,” she said. “But that was when we were still in the Riverlands, before… negotiations… fell apart. I’m not sure if he sent word to Dragonstone and made arrangements to send it before we left the Twins.”

“Let’s hope he did,” replied Meera. “They will need it.”

Dany stared at her. Drogon hadn’t even been able to survive these White Walkers. Some black glass daggers were supposed to defeat them? “Even if they had this dragonglass, what good would it do? There’s nothing that can be done now. It’s too late.”

Meera shook her head. “As long as there's life, there’s hope.” She nodded toward Bran Stark and Jon Snow.

What hope could possibly exist in this cave? That’s who she should place her hopes in? A cripple and a bastard? Weirwood roots? She had no idea what to say in response, so she said nothing.

Standing and picking up a metal tin, Meera turned and held it out. “Go fetch some water from the stream for boiling.”

Her face hardened. “Pardon?”

“Look, we all have to carry our own weight,” replied Meera, her voice like steel. “I’m not here to serve you. You can contribute. Go get some water. We need it.”

Anger flooded her gut like molten gold. She was Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the Unburnt, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Mother of Dragons, and Breaker of Chains. She was now supposed to _fetch water?_ She tightened her grip on the dragonglass arrowhead and considered stabbing the girl with it. Meera Reed arched her brow, giving her a challenging look, and Dany snatched the metal tin from her hand, walking away in silent fury toward the cave entrance that led out to the passage beyond.

*****

The familiar clacking sound of wood on wood faded as a new scene rose in front of Jon. Glancing at Bran beside him, he looked out across a large expanse of land littered with tents of all colors. He saw banners flying with different sigils, many he didn’t recognize. People milled about, coming and going, and the buzz of excited chatter filled the air. Knights in armor and chain mail sat atop their horses while trumpets heralded in the distance. Merchants sold their wares while cooks roasted various meats over spit fires. He had never seen such a spectacle. Nearby he could see the sparkling still waters of a lake. Beyond the tents rose the stone walls and towers of the largest castle he had ever seen.

“Harrenhal,” Jon said.

The castle had five towers of dizzying size, and its massive curtain walls were as high as mountain cliffs with wood-and-iron scorpions atop the battlements. The gatehouse alone was as large as Winterfell's Great Keep. Of the castle's five towers, the shortest was half as high as the tallest one in Winterfell, yet the towers were bent and cracked from the melting of stone. Aegon the Conqueror had burned the castle with his dragons three hundred years earlier. With a sharp pang, he remembered the sight of Viserion flying over Winterfell and its guards defending the castle from the dragon. Thoughts of Sansa filled his mind, and of Arya. Were they alive? Had they survived the dragon’s attack? If so, with the Wall having fallen, how much longer could they hope to survive? His thoughts were bleak, and he felt his spirits plummeting.

Bran nodded. “The tourney here lasted ten days and the opening ceremonies have just concluded. Jaime Lannister was appointed as a member of the Kingsguard. The king will be sending him back to King’s Landing with orders to guard Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys. The jousting won’t begin until tomorrow, but we must head toward the list field. The mummer show will be starting soon.”

His words brought Jon out of his reverie, and he followed behind him as they walked through the crowd of people seemingly heading in the same direction. “Why do we need to see a mummer show?”

“It’s not the show we need to see,” he replied. “The royal family will be there as well as the Kingsguard and a dozen of Princess Elia’s ladies-in-waiting.”

He followed Bran until they reached the field. It was clear this is where the joust would be held. Stands had been erected around the field, where many people were already sitting, and a makeshift stage had been built at one end. Directly across from the stage on the opposite side of the field was the royal pavilion. The red and black Targaryen banners flying above it cracked in the wind. On either side were pavilions which seated other high lords and ladies. Down below on the ground, standing in front of where the royal family were seated, Princess Elia’s companions laughed and flirted with knights and lords. Some of the young women removed colorful ribbons from their hair or their gowns and tied them about the men’s armor.

Bran continued walking straight across the field as the crowd looked on unawares. In a matter of moments, Jon was standing among the ladies in front of the royal pavilion. Upon closer look, they were all laughing, save one. Lady Ashara Dayne did not look happy. Her smiles were forced, and they never reached her violet eyes. She threw frequent nervous glances up to the pavilion where Princess Elia was sitting. Jon noticed that Rhaegar was not there with her. Several members of the Kingsguard stood in the pavilion, including Ser Barristan Selmy, whose eyes were frequently drawn to the princess’s ladies.

Turning his head, Jon saw the Mad King sitting upon the high seat. He looked gaunt and sickly. His grey hair was long and matted. His nails were inches long. That was his grandfather, and yet he felt nothing but contempt. He thought of Eddard Stark’s father and brother, cruelly murdered, along with countless others who met unjust ends because of the Mad King. He thought of Ned Stark, all that he had lost, and all the sacrifices he’d made to bring an end to Aerys Targaryen’s reign.

After the brief pause, Bran began walking around the side of the pavilion toward the entrance. They found Ser Oswell Whent of the Kingsguard standing at his post at the open flap leading inside the large tented area. A moment later, Rhaegar Targaryen came walking up the grassy path from beyond the pavilion, flanked by Ser Arthur Dayne and Prince Lewyn Martell in their intricate armor and white cloaks. The crown prince was dressed all in black apart from a red cloak and a red three-headed dragon stitched over the chest of his velvet doublet. Jon thought he appeared anxious.

Prince Rhaegar was soon standing in front of them and greeting the other Kingsguard. “Ser Oswell.”

“Your Grace,” he replied, bowing his head. He then glanced from side to side and lowered his voice. “My brother, Lord Walter, has spoken with the other high lords and they still want to meet for the Great Council.”

The prince sighed, closing his eyes. “It's too great a risk now that the king has decided to attend the tourney.”

Oswell Whent gaped. “But, Your Grace, this is important. You agreed it was the right thing to do. Lord Tywin is expecting you to honor the agreement. What should my brother tell him if you back out? That this tourney and all the gold spent was for nothing?”

“Aye, I agreed to it before, when my father announced he was not going to come to Harrenhal,” the prince replied. “He suddenly changed his mind. A Great Council puts too many people at risk now that he’s here.”

“Your Grace, this might be your only chance to do something,” Ser Oswell said in a pleading whisper. “The realm is suffering. The king can no longer rightfully call himself Lord Protector of the Seven Kingdoms. You are the Prince of Dragonstone. Things will only get worse unless _you_ make them better. You’re the only one who can. It is your duty.”

Rhaegar Targaryen looked upon the Kingsguard with a sorrowful expression. He then turned and looked at Arthur Dayne, who gave him an encouraging nod. He sighed and turned back to Oswell Whent. “I’ll try to do what I can.”

Ser Oswell let out a sigh of relief. “The Great Council is expected to go ahead inside the castle before the closing ceremonies on the last day of the tourney.”

“I’ll be there,” the prince said, before stepping inside the pavilion, Ser Arthur and Prince Lewyn following behind him.

Jon turned to his brother. “He decided to overthrow the Mad King?”

Bran frowned. “The high lords wanted him to. He was torn about it. He knew Aerys wasn’t a good king. He knew the right thing was to remove him. But… it was his father. Rhaegar also had no interest in being king.”

Sighing, he shook his head. “He could have done the most good as king. He could’ve protected the realm, enacted laws that prepared the people of Westeros for war with the Army of the Dead. He didn’t need a prophecy. He could have saved them just by putting himself in a position that would’ve benefited the realm the most. He alone knew the Great War was coming. He knew what was at stake. It was his responsibility to protect the people of the Seven Kingdoms, and he failed them.”

“In a lot of ways he did, yes. But he also gave the realm a gift, a hero who would be the one to save them.”

“I failed them, too. I couldn’t stop the Night King.”

Bran gave Rhaegar Targaryen’s son a meaningful look. “Your story isn’t over yet, Jon.”

*****

Jon followed Bran back toward the large field of tents. The area now seemed less crowded. Most of those who had come to the tourney were likely attending the mummer show. They walked between the tents until Bran came to a stop inside a small clearing. Jon watched as a boy walked through the clearing some several feet in front of them. He was dressed in greens and browns, from his boots to his cloak, carrying a sack with a leathern shield over one shoulder and a three-pronged spear in his hand. Upon closer look at the boy’s face, Jon realized he was a young man, and looked perhaps twenty years of age, although his height was closer to that of a child of thirteen.

“A crannogman,” he said, putting together his stature and his garb while recalling the brief time he’d spent at Moat Cailin in the Neck.

“Yes, a young Howland Reed,” answered Bran.

Jon turned from Bran and stared at the young man. “Father’s friend?”

Before Bran could reply, Howland Reed was set upon by three young squires. They were lads of fifteen or so, but much bigger than the crannogman. “Oy! What’s swamp scum doin’ here?” called out one of them.

Howland Reed turned as another squire snatched his spear from his hand and knocked him to the ground. “Fuck you, frogeater. Your kind don’t belong here.”

But the crannogman quickly stood with a fierce growl and began to fight back, striking their faces and leaving gash marks on their cheeks. Again, and again they knocked him to the ground when he tried to rise. Lying on the ground, bruised and bloody, he curled himself up into a ball as the squires began to kick him repeatedly. Jon felt enraged at the injustice of it and was about to demand that Bran do something, when a girl marched into the clearing.

Clad in crisp brown leathers and a long grey belted tunic, carrying a wooden tourney sword in her hand, Lyanna Stark roared. “That’s my father’s man you’re kicking!”

Jon’s heart swelled with pride and he couldn’t help but smile as his mother began to beat the squires with her wooden sword. Again, and again her sword found purchase, knocking the squires alongside their ribs, arms, and legs. The boys couldn’t withstand the beating for long and were soon scattering, cursing the “wolf girl” as they ran away.

Lyanna Stark knelt by the crannogman and laid her hand gently on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, my lady,” he replied, sitting up with a grimace. “Thank you.”

“May I ask your name?” she said as she stood. She walked over to where his spear lay on the ground, picking it up.

He got to his feet. “Howland of House Reed, my lady.”

Lyanna smiled. “The eldest son of Lord Reed?”

The crannogman nodded. He then looked puzzled. “If you didn’t know who I was, then why did you say I was your father’s man?”

“All the people of the Neck fall under my lord father’s protection,” Lyanna replied.

“You must be Lady Lyanna, the daughter of Winterfell,” Howland said with a smile, bowing his head. “It is my privilege and honor, my lady. Greywater Watch rang its bells the day we received word of your birth.”

Her cheeks reddened, but she shook her head and scoffed at his words. “There’s no need for that. Where’s your family’s tent? I must help you get back to them so you can mend those cuts.”

Howland Reed gave her a half-smile. “I travel alone. We crannogmen never leave home much. My family thinks I am strange for coming, but I just had to see the tourney.” He sighed, and wiped some of the blood from the cut above his brow. “I guess I shouldn’t have come. I never thought I’d ever lay eyes on anyone from House Stark, although I had always hoped. So, I am glad to have at least met you.”

Lyanna smiled. “Well, we need to get you cleaned up. You must come and meet my brothers. There’s plenty of room in our tents for you to stay with us.”

Jon and Bran followed Lyanna Stark and Howland Reed until they came to a cluster of grey tents with the direwolf flying from the center poles. Stepping inside the largest one, Jon found himself once again looking upon a young Eddard Stark seated at a wooden table. His uncles Brandon and Benjen were there also. Coming face to face with the sons of Lord Rickard Stark, the crannogman froze just inside the tent entrance, hanging back from Lady Lyanna.

“What did you do to him?” Brandon Stark asked his sister as he gaped at Howland’s cut and bruised face, and his torn and bloody sleeves.

Lyanna rolled her eyes. “Three bullies did that to him. And if I have anything to say about it, they won’t be doing it again.” She gently grasped the crannogman’s arm, leading him further into the tent. “This is Howland Reed of Greywater Watch, and he’ll be staying with us for the tourney.”

The three Stark brothers stood from the table and warmly greeted Howland. He was soon seated on the bench and Lyanna began to clean his wounds and bind the cuts on his arms with strips of linen. Eddard watched with a smile, before turning a look of suspicion on his little sister. “What did you do to the bullies?” he asked.

Lyanna cleared her throat and kept her eyes focused on wrapping Howland’s arm, determinedly not looking at her elder brother. “My sword got the better of them.”

“Then we can be thankful it was only a wooden sword, or there would’ve been a price to pay,” Eddard replied with a disapproving look while Brandon and Benjen laughed.

“They were squires, Ned,” Lyanna said indignantly, turning from her work and looking at her brother. “They should have known better than to behave so dishonorably. I bet the knights they serve are no true knights.” She then turned back to Howland. “The king’s welcoming feast is this evening. You’ll sit with us at our table.”

The crannogman looked down at his plain green garb and then looked up at the Starks, dressed in fine leathers and woolens. “I don’t belong at a feast with all the lords and ladies of Great Houses, with royalty. I’ll be perfectly content to remain here and purchase some roast mutton like the rest of the smallfolk. We don’t often have meat at home.”

Lyanna fixed him with a stern look. “You listen here, Howland Reed. Pay no mind to what those squires said. You are of high birth. You’re the son of a lord whose House is sworn to House Stark. You belong at the feast just as much as the rest of us, and you belong at our table as our honored guest.”

Brandon and Eddard nodded in agreement with her words, and Howland gave up his protest. Jon smiled as he watched Lyanna instruct Benjen to find the crannogman some clothing fit for a king’s feast. The more he learned about her, the more he came to respect her. The more he respected her, the more he liked her. The more he learned about his mother, the more he learned about himself. And the more he learned, the more he wanted to know.  

*****

Jon found himself standing next to Bran inside the largest banquet hall he had ever laid eyes on. Countless tables were spread across the floor and the din of music, laughter, and the clang of cups and plates filled the hall. On a raised platform at the front of the hall sat the royal family along with the Lord of Harrenhal, Walter Whent, and his children. Jon focused on Rhaegar Targaryen. Unlike the others sitting up on the dais, he looked sullen and unhappy. Elia Martell occasionally threw her brooding husband an anxious glance, only to be distracted by Aerys Targaryen’s raucous laughter or angry shouting. It seemed he could not decide what mood he was in. Those sitting in tables closest to the raised platform also threw concerned and anxious looks up at the king.

Bran led Jon over to the long table where the Starks were sitting. Joining them were Howland Reed along with members of Houses Dustin, Hornwood, Mormont, and Manderly. Brandon laughed heartily and flirted with the serving girls while his brothers looked on, shaking their heads in amusement. Lyanna threw her eldest brother disapproving looks. Across from Eddard and Brandon, she sat between Benjen and Howland, and they all drank and ate to their hearts’ content.

After another round of Dornish wine was served, Prince Rhaegar stepped off the royal dais and walked over to another raised platform against the adjacent wall where the musicians had been performing. The music stilled when he reached the dais, and he took a place in front of the musicians where one of the drummers had placed a stool for him. As the crown prince sat down with his high harp, a hush went over the crowd. In a matter of moments, the hall was so quiet Jon thought he could have heard a pin drop.

And then Rhaegar began to play, his fingers moving deftly across the silver strings. He sang a sad and beautiful song, of Aemon the Dragonknight and his doomed love for his sister, Queen Naerys. The song spoke of the heartache of unfulfilled love and the tragedy of love lost. Jon turned his attention from Rhaegar and looked at Lyanna. Tears were streaming down her face as she watched the prince, and suddenly all he could think of was Sansa. His heart clutched and ached inside his chest. At first glance, his mother had seemed almost the spitting image of Arya, and from the outside she was. But now, all he could see was Sansa. Her compassion, her sense of justice, her stubbornness, secret yearnings, and a well of deep emotions.  

When the song ended, the hall broke out in applause. Lyanna wiped the tears from her cheeks and Benjen began to laugh at her for crying. Her face hardened and she grabbed her cup of wine, pouring it over her brother’s head. Benjen gasped and protested loudly, Eddard then quickly interceding and took his little brother outside the hall to get cleaned up. When they returned, a wandering crow from Castle Black was standing up on the musicians’ platform, trying in vain to convince the knights present to take up a worthy cause and join the brothers of the Night’s Watch. When he finished speaking, several tables at the front of the hall were cleared away to make room for dancing.

The raised platform then became packed with musicians, more than before; drummers and fiddlers and pipers, horns and skins and strings. The dancing began with fervor, and Brandon quickly left the table to join in the amusement. Jon looked on as Eddard Stark watched the dancers and it soon became apparent that he only had eyes for Ashara Dayne, dressed in a gown of purple silk. She first danced with her brother, Ser Arthur, followed by a comely young man with olive skin and shiny black hair.

“Oberyn Martell,” Bran told him. “Princess Elia’s elder brother.”

Another song began to play, and Ashara Dayne was soon dancing with Prince Rhaegar’s red-haired companion, Lord Jon Connington. The two seemed to be having a serious conversation as they danced, the lady-in-waiting’s smiles turning into frowns. Brandon Stark then returned to the table, clasping his hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she, Ned?” he chuckled. “She’s the most beautiful girl here. I found out her name is Lady Ashara of House Dayne. She’s the Sword of the Morning’s sister! You should ask her to dance.”

Eddard’s face reddened with embarrassment, and he shook his head in reply, averting his eyes from the dance floor and turning back around in his seat. “Why would she want to dance with me?”

Brandon rolled his eyes. “Don’t sell yourself short, Ned. These southron girls need some iron in their lives. Have you seen the men passing as knights around here? Knights o’ Pansies, this lot. These women haven’t seen real men until they’ve seen northmen. It’s about time you found a sheath for your sword, eh?” He then left the table again as quickly as he’d arrived. Eddard heaved a sigh while Lyanna frowned.

Jon watched Brandon Stark return to hover near the dance floor. When the music stopped, he approached Ashara Dayne without hesitation. Her eyes lit up at the sight of him and she was smiling once again, a smile as bright as the sunshine. He whispered in her ear and pointed over at his brother. She smiled and nodded, and began following him back to the Stark table.

“Lord Eddard?” spoke Ashara Dayne when she’d reached them.

He quickly turned around in his seat, his eyes widening. “Yes?”

Lady Ashara smiled. “You brother, Brandon, tells me you would like to have the next dance with me.”

“Um…” Eddard Stark seemed lost for words. “You don’t have to, I mean…”

“It would be my honor,” she said sweetly.

Nodding, Eddard stood up from the table and led Ashara Dayne back to the dance floor. Several times she glanced back at Brandon, her eyes sparkling as she smiled, and he grinned appreciatively. He soon followed them, and asked another young maid to dance.

Howland Reed glanced at the wolf maid beside him. “Why aren’t you dancing as well? Do you not enjoy it?”

“I love to dance,” Lyanna said with a sigh. “But my father said I wasn’t to dance with anyone unless it was with my brothers or my _betrothed_.” Jon noticed a certain ring of contempt when she said that last word.

“I didn’t know you were going to be wed,” replied Howland. “Well, can you dance with him? Is he here? If he is here, then he should be by your side constantly.”

Lyanna gave him a half-smile, but then her face hardened. “He’s here.” She pointed at a table several rows away. Jon’s eyes followed, and he soon caught sight of Robert Baratheon. The Lord of Storm’s End was currently in a drinking contest with another of Prince Rhaegar’s companions, Ser Richard Lonmouth, and it was apparent that Robert was winning. As a plump serving girl poured more ale into his cup, his hands went to her brown bodice and he hugged her to him, burying his face in her chest. Howland Reed’s eyes widened and he looked down. Lyanna’s mouth formed a hard, thin line, and she quickly got up from the table and walked away, Benjen’s loud protests to come back seemingly falling on deaf ears. With one last glance at the royal dais, where Rhaegar looked more miserable than ever while the Mad King’s bizarre antics continued, Jon followed his mother out of the banquet hall.

Lyanna Stark, wearing a simple dress of dark grey wool trimmed in white, with direwolves embroidered around the sleeves and collar in fine silver thread, made her way through the large castle, following the flow of servants. They were coming and going, each giving her a strange look but saying nothing to the highborn lady. Jon and Bran followed until she came to a bench tucked in a corner against the wall adjacent from the entrance to the kitchens, and sat down with a heavy sigh. 

A small group of serving girls were soon approaching the kitchens with empty trays and flagons, abuzz with conversation.

“Did you see the way that Robert Baratheon was carrying on with Donella?” one of them said, laughing.

“I’ve heard all about him,” replied another maidservant, giggling. “He's eager for that ride, don't think he ain’t. Donella is a pretty thing, to be sure. She better look out for herself, or he’ll leave a bastard on her, poor girl.”

The servants stopped at the kitchen entrance, their backs to Lyanna, and hollered for more wine and cakes to be brought out. The girls continued their chatter while they waited. “The prince looks so sullen, ain’t no mistake. And everyone is having such a grand time, even the king.”

“The king is losing his bloody mind,” grumbled another servant. “And if the prince had gotten himself a decent wife, he wouldn’t look so glum. She looks like she could shatter to pieces in a gust of wind.”

The youngest of the maidservants, a girl of fourteen or so, sighed dreamily. “If only he could’ve married for love.”

Her companions laughed. “The rich don’t marry for love. What a foolish notion. They marry for land and gold and highborn heirs, ain’t no mistake. Besides, these noblemen drown their sorrows in the brothels. Don’t you go feelin’ sorry for ‘em.”

“From what I hear, the prince is no brothel patron,” spoke the eldest. “Then again, there aren’t any brothels on Dragonstone. That never stopped the Targaryens from littering the coastal towns with bastards, though.”

“Well, if the prince can be faithful to a wife he doesn’t love, then imagine how faithful he’d be to a woman who was dear to him,” said the young maidservant earnestly.

The others shook their heads, rolling their eyes. “You’ve got your head in the clouds, girl. I suppose you wish he’d marry you?” Peals of laughter erupted again.

A cask of wine emerged from the kitchens and the servants’ flagons were filled. Their trays filled with cakes and then they were gone, once again heading back to the feast. Lyanna Stark heaved a sigh and stood up, and walked back to the banquet hall, Jon and Bran following. Upon entering the hall, she quickly took her seat between Howland and Benjen at House Stark’s table. Brandon and Eddard were also seated at the table, although the dancing on the other side of the hall continued.

Looking about at the merriment around them, Howland caught sight of something that made him pause and stare. Lyanna took notice and followed his gaze. Jon also raised his eyes to look at what had caught their attention, and he immediately recognized three lads with scratched and bruised faces. Lyanna’s face darkened, and she leaned over toward her elder brothers. “Those are the squires who attacked Howland. Over there. One bears the pitchfork sigil of House Haigh, the porcupine serves House Blount, and the third serves…”

“House Frey,” said the crannogman bitterly.

Brandon and Eddard turned to watch the squires. Benjen leaned across his sister. “You should avenge yourself, Howland. I could find you a horse, and some armor that might fit you.”

The crannogman sighed. “Thank you for the offer, my lord.”

Lyanna had remained silent, watching with cold eyes as the squires moved about the banquet hall. Soon Benjen was yawning. Eddard stood up from the table. “Time to head back to our tents. Jousting starts tomorrow, and there will be five days of it. We need to get some rest. You have a place in my tent, Lord Reed, if you wish it.”

Howland thanked him. Benjen and Lyanna silently obeyed their brother, standing up from the table, but Brandon laughed. “The feast isn’t nearly over. It’ll keep going well past midnight.” He then stood up. “Go on, get your sleep. But I promised Lady Ashara another dance.” Winking, he threw them all a grin, and then walked off toward the dance floor.

Bran turned to Jon and fixed him with a meaningful look. “Time for the joust.”

As the feast faded in front of him, Jon had a feeling of apprehension. He knew how the joust ended. He knew Rhaegar had chosen Lyanna as his queen of love and beauty out of a crowd of hundreds, passing over his own wife. What he had seen of the tourney so far still did not explain why this had happened, why his mother would have even garnered the prince’s notice. But there was something in the way Bran spoke that made him feel he there was more to this story than anyone knew, and he was about to find out.

*****

It was late in the day, the sun beginning to lower in the sky, but the list field was awash in sights and sounds. Hundreds of people, it not a thousand, filled the stands around the field. Heralds blew their trumpets. Knights atop their horses entered and left the field. The royal pavilion housed the king, his small council, Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia, her ladies-in-waiting, Prince Oberyn Martell, and the Kingsguard. Noblemen and women filled the other pavilions stationed in front of the stands. Jon and Bran were standing in the pavilion set up for the Warden of the North, not far from the one housing the royal family. There the two eldest Starks were sitting with Howland Reed along with their other lords bannermen. But Lyanna and Benjen weren’t with them.

Suddenly, Ashara Dayne appeared on the ground below their pavilion and she looked up at the Stark brothers, waving. “Good afternoon, Lord Eddard.” She smiled up at him sweetly.

Eddard Stark’s face reddened and he swallowed. “Good afternoon, my lady. I hope you are enjoying the joust.”

“I am. Very much so, thank you. Hello, Brandon,” she then said, turning to his brother. Her eyes sparkled as her smile widened.

“Lady Ashara,” greeted Brandon, smirking down at her and giving her a wink.

As Lady Dayne walked away back toward the royal pavilion, Jon couldn’t help but notice his lord father’s face fall. Suddenly memories rushed forward of the pangs of jealousy he would at times feel around Robb, memories of constantly living in the shadow of his elder brother, eclipsed by his father’s rightful heir, the son who could do no wrong, the fallen hero the North had named the Young Wolf. He knew exactly what Eddard Stark must be feeling in that moment.

“The girls always like you, don’t they?” he said to his brother.

Brandon laughed. “She likes you, too. She spoke to you first.”

Eddard shook his head. “She didn’t look at me the way she looked at you. But that’s true about all the girls.”

“Nonsense. If you talked to them more, you’d get somewhere, Ned. It’s about time you had your first taste of manhood.”

“Aye. On my wedding night, I will.”

Brandon rolled his eyes and laughed. “Well, if you won’t partake, then I shall. I’ve never seen a more beautiful woman in all my life.”

Fixing him a disapproving look, Eddard pursed his lips. “What of your betrothed? The Lady Catelyn?”

“I’m not married yet, Ned. I intend to have my fun while I still can.”

Their little brother then appeared in the tent and took his seat next to them. Eddard stared at him. “Where is Lyanna?”

Benjen hesitated. “She... we were feeding cubes of sugar to the horses behind the field. And then… she said she had to go make water. So, I came back here.”

“You left her alone?” Eddard said, his voice stern.

“Lyanna is perfectly capable of handling herself, Ned,” said Brandon. “You know what she did to those squires.”

Eddard’s face hardened. “Those squires were foolish boys. There are far more dangerous people lurking about a tourney. Lyanna is only a girl of fifteen. She shouldn’t be going around by herself.”

Brandon heaved an exasperated sigh. “I’m sure she’s fine, Ned. No one would dare harm a daughter of Winterfell.”

Jon couldn’t help but notice that Benjen had remained silent through all of this and kept throwing anxious glances at the entrance to the list field, where knights were riding their horses into or out of the lists. He then watched as Benjen gripped the wooden rail in front of him, his knuckles turning white. He followed his gaze until he set eyes on knight trotting onto the field. Jon thought he was quite short for a knight, and he wore ill-fitting, unmarked armor made up of mismatched pieces that looked to have been put together hastily, and a helm to cover his face. He carried a lance in one hand and a shield in the other, upon which was painted a white weirwood with a laughing red face.

“A mystery knight, how exciting,” laughed Brandon.

“Who would carry a shield with a weirwood?” Eddard questioned.

Benjen’s face reddened but he kept his eyes on the mystery knight as he rode his horse down to end of the lists where that day’s five joust champions were seated. Dipping his lance in front of them, the mystery knight challenged three champions: the knights of House Haigh, House Blount, and House Frey. The champions all stood and accepted the challenge. Eyes widening, Benjen clasped his hands together and bowed his head.

“What are you doing?” Brandon asked, amused.

“Praying to the gods of the North,” answered Benjen in a weak voice.

Howland Reed gasped as he watched the mystery knight. “Seven hells.”

The two eldest Stark brothers fixed them a bemused look, but a moment later realization dawned on their faces. Eddard stared at the mystery knight taking its position at one end of the field. “She wouldn’t dare!”

Brandon’s mouth had fallen open, but he was quickly smiling in excitement. “Oh, yes she would. You were in the Vale too long, brother. This is exactly something she would do.”

“If something happens to her, Father will have our heads,” Eddard retorted harshly.

“Have some faith, Ned. She’s capable.”

Eddard turned on his little brother. “Did you help her do this?”

Benjen made no reply, sinking further in his seat. The knight of House Blount trotted his horse up to the opposite end of the field as the mystery knight. Jon watched with keen anticipation. He thought he knew what the outcome would be, but his heart was in this throat all the same. A flag waved, and suddenly the knights were galloping toward each other, lances out. All three Stark brothers stood, along with Howland Reed, staring with wide eyes, their faces blanching. The knights came together, their lances pushing forward, but the mystery knight was faster, and a moment later the knight bearing the porcupine sigil was on the ground. The crowd erupted in cheers while the Stark brothers finally let out the breath they had been holding.

Twice more, the mystery knight jousted against the champions that had been challenged, and both the pitchfork knight and the twin towers knight had the same fate as the porcupine knight. The crowd cheered the loudest when the knight serving House Frey fell, and the name dubbed Knight of the Laughing Tree quickly spread through the stands. Having defeated all three, the mystery knight won their horses and their armor. The crowd looked on as the fallen champions sought to ransom back their belongings from the mystery knight.

Through the helm which still hid the Knight of the Laughing Tree’s face, an unnatural voice boomed loudly. “Teach your squires honor, and that shall be ransom enough.”

Jon smiled, his heart swelling with pride. The Starks brothers and Howland Reed cheered heartily as they watched the defeated knights sharply chastise their squires in front of the crowd. The Knight of the Laughing Tree returned their armor and horses, and rode out of the arena. Bran looked over at Jon and suddenly the scene faded, and they were once again inside the banquet hall for another feast.

The Mad King was raging from the royal dais. “The face behind the mystery knight’s helm is no friend of mine! All you men present, you knights and lords, must challenge this Laughing Tree knight or you’re all as worthless as a whore’s promises!” He then threw his flagon of wine, and it crashed onto the floor, breaking into pieces. The king promptly dissolved into tears and began to weep.

Jon watched as Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia looked mortified at this outburst, although from what he had observed during the jousting, this seemed to be the king’s normal behavior. The prince turned to face the musicians’ platform and nodded. Taking his cue, the music began to play, filling the hall once more. Moments later, the music seemed to stem the flow of the king’s tears and he began to sing loud and enthusiastically, banging his cup on the table for more wine.

“He’s singing ‘Bear and the Maiden Fair,’” said Eddard Stark. “Unfortunately, the musicians are playing ‘Flowers of Spring.’”

“The man is unstable,” Brandon Stark said in a low voice to his lords bannermen. “Hopefully something will be done at the council. Who knows how much longer he’ll sit the throne? We need to put Rhaegar on it as soon as possible.”

“Watch what you say,” Eddard replied in a harsh whisper. “You’re not going to this council. It’s too dangerous.”

Brandon gave him a defiant look. “Oh, yes I am. Father commanded me to. Something must be done. Your friend, Robert, is going, along with lords from the Stormlands. As is Jon Arryn, Hoster Tully, Tywin Lannister’s bannermen, Oberyn Martell, and half the Kingsguard from what I hear. Not to mention the prince, our next king. You’d go too, if you were smart.”

Sighing, Eddard shook his head. “I am smart, and I say stay out of it.” He turned to face his sister. “Tomorrow morning, you’re to get rid of that armor, helm, and shield. Somewhere no one can find it.”

Lyanna frowned. “But Ned…”

“Do you understand the dangerous position you’ve put yourself in?” her brother demanded.

As Lyanna nodded silently, the scene faded and once again Jon found himself standing next to Bran in the Starks’ pavilion in the list field. Just like the day before, they were all present except for Lyanna and Benjen. Heralds took to their trumpets to announce the champions from the previous day’s joust, but only two rode their horses onto the field. Aerys Targaryen stood up from his chair, enraged, and began to shout angrily over the vanishing of the mystery knight. The crowd hushed as everyone watched the king’s tirade. He then turned on his son, demanding he find this mystery knight and bring him in front of the king. Without a word or hesitation, Prince Rhaegar stood and left the royal pavilion.

Bran turned to Jon. “Let’s go.”

With the familiar clacking sound of wood on wood, the list stands and the Starks and the Mad King faded as quickly they had appeared. In their place rose the field of tents on the other side of the great castle. To his far left, Jon caught sight of the many-colored tents with their banners dancing in the wind, and to his right was the sparkling Gods Eye Lake, its shore dotted with trees, beech, oak, and chestnut. Lyanna Stark suddenly emerged from between two tents, dressed in her brown leather breeches and long grey belted tunic that nearly hung to her knees. She was carrying the painted shield with the laughing red face of a white weirwood, heading straight for the lake. Jon and Bran went after her, following until she came to a stop below a large beech tree.

Beneath the tree, Lyanna unfurled a long strip of linen and began tying one end to the shield. She looked up at the lowest branch and she tried to reach for it, but it was too high. Wrapping the other end of linen around her wrist, holding onto it tightly, she set her foot on a knot in the trunk of the beech tree, and started to climb. She reached for the branch, her fingertips brushing against the rough bark, but she lost her grip and fell to the ground with a thud. Sitting up, her long dark brown hair falling wild and loose over her shoulders, she heaved a sigh. With a groan, she started to get up off the ground.

Bran grabbed Jon’s arm, turning him back around to face the line of tents, and his eyes immediately fell on Rhaegar Targaryen. His brows were furrowed as he stared at Lyanna, but then his features relaxed and his mouth curved into an amused smile.

“Pardon me, my lady, but do you need some help with that?”

Lyanna spun around, her eyes widening in shock, her mouth falling open. She froze and stared, speechless. Rhaegar grinned and nodded, and came forward until he was standing next to her. “You want to hang your shield up in this tree, is that right? Here, hand it over.”

Without a word, Lyanna held out the shield to the prince. He smiled again, taking the strip of linen from her hand and then putting it between his teeth. Her eyes widened as he turned to the tree, and with both hands climbed until he’d reached the branch, hoisting himself up until he was straddling it. The prince then removed the strip of linen from his mouth and held the shield in his hands.

“So, the infamous Knight of the Laughing Tree is just a maiden, eh?” said Rhaegar, full of humor.

“What do you mean, _just?”_ Lyanna said indignantly, finally finding her voice, her hands going to her hips.

The prince looked down at her, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

Catching herself, Lyanna cleared her throat. “Your Grace, I mean.”

“You know, only lords and knights are permitted to take part in the joust,” the prince said. “You broke the rules, and the king has demanded that I find this mystery knight and bring him forward for justice.”

“Justice,” she scoffed. “My friend, the crannogman, deserved justice from those nasty squires. It was for the sake of honor I broke the rules, and I’m glad that I did.” She paused. “Your Grace.”

Rhaegar began tying the strip of linen around the tree branch. “You defeated those knights for the honor of a crannogman, you say? Not many people would care so much about the inhabitants of the Neck.”

She nodded. “He’s my father’s bannerman, Your Grace.”

“You must be a northern girl,” the prince said with a smile. “I thought as much. I can’t say I’ve ever seen any southron girls like you before.”

“Lyanna of House Stark, Your Grace.”

The prince tied the linen and then jumped down from the tree. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady. I’ve always been very interested in the North.”

She gave him a look of surprise. “I didn’t think southerners remembered we exist.”

“Most of them don’t, probably,” Rhaegar said. “But I’m fascinated. Ever since I was a boy, I loved reading about the Night’s Watch, and the Long Night, the children of the forest, and the White Walkers. I’m sure it was a terrifying thing to live through.”

“You… _you_ know about the Long Night?” Lyanna asked in disbelief. “And the Others? Riding their pale dead horses? You know about their packs of white spiders big as hounds?”

Rhaegar’s eyes widened. “Spiders as big as hounds? I don’t remember reading that in any of my books.”

Lyanna scoffed, shaking her head. “I could tell you stories about the Long Night that would make your skin crawl, stories you’d never find in any of your southron books.”

“Would you?” the prince asked, taking an eager step forward, his brows raised expectantly.

Again, she was speechless. Jon watched her cheeks redden, watched her play with her fingers nervously. “But, I thought you were going to take me to see the king, so that I can get the justice I deserve… Your Grace.”

He furrowed his brows at her. “Now, why would I do that? The king may have commanded it, but as far as I’m concerned, your secret is safe with me, my lady.”

Before she could say anything in reply, Benjen came running from between the tents, calling for his sister. “Did you get rid of the shield yet?” But upon setting eyes on her and the prince, he came to a halt and stared.

“I have to go, Your Grace,” Lyanna said quickly. “Thank you for helping me. And keeping my secret. I’m grateful.” She turned and started walking toward her little brother.

“Will you be at the feast tonight?” Rhaegar called out to her.

She turned, and smiled. “Yes.”

He returned her smile. “Do you dance?”

“I do, Your Grace,” replied Lyanna, blushing. “But I am only allowed to dance with my brothers or my betrothed.” She turned and started walking even faster toward a stunned Benjen.

“Who are you betrothed to?” the prince called out again.

She then reached Benjen, and called back over her shoulder. “Your Baratheon cousin!”

Rhaegar chuckled. “The drunk or the bore?”

Laughing, Lyanna grabbed her brother by the hand and began hurrying away. Suddenly she turned, looking back at the prince, her smile as bright as sunshine. “The drunk!”

“I’ll look for you at the feast,” the prince called out one last time as Lyanna and Benjen disappeared among the tents. Smiling to himself, Rhaegar returned to the beech tree, climbed up to the branch, and removed the shield, gracefully dropping back down to the ground. Staring down at the white weirwood with the laughing red face, he smiled.

Standing next to Bran, Jon felt more confused than ever. Would Rhaegar truly have kidnapped Lyanna Stark, locked her in a tower, and raped her? Everything he had seen so far gave him many reasons to doubt the truthfulness of the story he had been led to believe.

Jon turned. “Why are you showing me all this? What good will it do?”

Bran thought for a moment. “Because how can you move forward if you are ignorant of the past? How can you accept the truth about yourself if everything you’ve been told is a lie? How can you find it within yourself to face what needs to be done unless you understand the sacrifices made so that you could survive?”

He swallowed against the lump forming in his throat, and nodded, his eyes pricking with tears. Before he could say anything in reply, the lakeside scene faded away in front of his eyes like mist on a summer morning.


	37. The Queen Of Love And Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "'The tourney Lord Whent staged at Harrenhal beside the Gods Eye, in the year of the false spring. A notable event. Besides the jousting, there was a mêlée in the old style fought between seven teams of knights, as well as archery and axe-throwing, a horse race, a tournament of singers, a mummer show, and many feasts and frolics. Lord Whent was as open handed as he was rich. The lavish purses he proclaimed drew hundreds of challengers. Even your royal father came to Harrenhal, when he had not left the Red Keep for long years. The greatest lords and mightiest champions of the Seven Kingdoms rode in that tourney, and the Prince of Dragonstone bested them all.'
> 
> 'But that was the tourney when he crowned Lyanna Stark as queen of love and beauty!' said Dany. 'Princess Elia was there, his wife, and yet my brother gave the crown to the Stark girl, and later stole her away from her betrothed. How could he do that? Did the Dornish woman treat him so ill?'
> 
> 'It is not for such as me to say what might have been in your brother's heart, Your Grace. The Princess Elia was a good and gracious lady, though her health was ever delicate.'" ~ A Storm of Swords, Daenerys IV

Jon was once again standing beside Bran inside Harrenhal’s large banquet hall, looking upon the sights and sounds of the evening feast. The royal family sat upon the dais at the front of the room, save Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys who were in King’s Landing. The bizarre antics of Aerys Targaryen had not seemed to lessen any, the intermittent bouts of laughter, anger, and tears continuing. Although Elia Martell frequently flushed in embarrassment and threw the king anxious glances, as well as those sitting at the tables closest to the raised platform, Rhaegar Targaryen appeared inattentive and unconcerned. Jon thought he seemed distracted, his eyes constantly drawn to the hall’s entrance, where heralds were announcing the arrivals of lords and ladies.

A moment later, Jon watched as his family stood inside the entrance. His uncle Brandon whispered to the herald, who nodded and then loudly projected his voice inside the banquet hall. “Lord Brandon Stark of Winterfell, son and heir to Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, accompanied by his brothers, Lords Eddard and Benjen, and his sister, Lady Lyanna.”

Jon watched the prince sit straighter in his chair, his eyes widening with excitement, a ghost of a twinkling smile flitting across his face. Lyanna walked into the hall, wearing a gown of purple lambswool trimmed in white lace, with vines and leaves embroidered around the bodice, sleeves, and hem in bronze thread. Jon recognized those colors as belonging to House Locke, a noble house from Oldcastle in the North, the House of Rickard Stark’s mother. She nervously looked up at the royal dais, smiling as her eyes met Rhaegar’s. The prince smiled in return, and she blushed.

Once seated at their table, the castle’s servants began bringing out flagons of wine and ale, pots of oxtail soup, trays of crusty hot bread, cheese-and-onion pies, and platters of roast heron. The Starks filled their plates and cups with the feast’s offerings. Tearing off a piece of bread, Eddard turned to look over his shoulder at the royal dais, where the king was shouting angrily at a servant who was pouring wine into his goblet. He then turned and looked at his sister seated across the table from him. “You got rid of that armor and shield like I told you to, yes?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

Lyanna paused, taking a sip of her wine, before setting her cup back down on the table. “Yes, I did,” she finally answered.

“And no one saw you?” Eddard replied, his brows raising earnestly.

“No, Ned… no one saw me,” said Lyanna. She glanced at her younger brother out of the corner of her eye. Jon watched as Benjen’s face turned red and he busied himself with his soup, keeping his face down. Giving her a small smile, Eddard nodded and then began to eat. Her eyes flitted toward the royal dais. A moment later, the prince met her gaze and held it until she glanced away at the sound of Howland Reed addressing her.

The scene faded out and another rose in its place just as quickly. Jon and Bran were still at the feast, but some time had gone by. Torches had been lit as dusk crept in. Servants were taking away the platters of food as another group of servants were refilling wine and passing out trays of lemon cakes and blueberry tarts. Robert Baratheon was in the middle of another drinking contest. Brandon stood in the back corner of the hall, whispering in Ashara Dayne’s ear. Jon looked on as Eddard, Lyanna, Benjen, and Howland Reed laughed together at their table, his mother often gazing off briefly at Rhaegar, who met her looks fixedly, shared smiles passing secretly between them.

The tables nearest the royal dais were moved away to make room for dancing and the musicians began playing in earnest. Robert Baratheon was the first on his feet. He seized one of Princess Elia’s ladies-in-waiting by the arm, spun her and tossed her in the air. The young lady shrieked with laughter, her face turning red, as the skirt of her green silk gown swirled and lifted. Others soon joined in. When the first dance ended, Brandon walked with Ashara Dayne back over to the Stark table, where Eddard was once again presumed upon to lead her out to dance as the musicians readied to start the next song. Smiling, the eldest Stark sibling sat down at the table to watch the dancers take their places.

Lyanna glanced up at the royal dais, catching Rhaegar’s eye. He gave her a half smile and nodded toward the dance floor, his brows raising with interest, as if beckoning her to come closer to him. She blushed, chewed her lip for a moment, and then leaned across the table. “Brandon?” she said to the back of her brother’s head.

“Hmm?”

“Would you dance with me?” she asked.

He chuckled. “How would it look to all these ladies if I were to dance with my sister?”

She rolled her eyes. “They would find it charming. Please, Brandon? I’ve been wanting to dance so badly, and this will be the fourth feast in a row I’ll have not danced with anyone. It’s not fair.”

Before Brandon could answer, Robert Baratheon appeared at their table, tall, muscled, with a mop of thick black hair atop his head, red-faced and grinning broadly. “Might I have this dance, my lady?”

Lyanna stared, and Jon thought she seemed torn between her desire to dance and her contempt for the man. Her eyes flitted toward the prince once more. Her decision then made, she looked up at Robert and nodded. The Lord of Storm’s End led his betrothed to join the other dancers, Jon and Bran following, where she took her place opposite the royal dais. The music swelled and the dance began. Across the dance floor, Lyanna and Rhaegar frequently locked eyes, their smiles tentative, as if they were unsure, exploring each other’s response.

The singers and musicians went on to play “Seasons of My Love” and “Two Hearts that Beat as One” and “The Vow Unspoken.” Several young knights asked Lyanna to dance, but she declined and remained with Robert through them all. He laughed heartily and jested bawdily with the other dancers on the floor. Yet her smiling eyes were frequently drawn up to the royal dais, paying her dance partner no mind. A servant came up to the prince’s side, but he was ignored, Rhaegar’s attention riveted on Lyanna.

Bran turned to Jon, who was fixated on the growing intense looks between the two people who would become his parents. “We must keep moving,” he said.

The scene immediately faded away, another one rising in its place just as quickly. Once again, Jon found himself standing near Gods Eye Lake, the field of colorful tents behind him. Sitting beneath the same beech tree where her weirwood shield had once hung, Lyanna looked out over the sparkling waters as the early morning sun rose in the sky. Her wooden tourney sword lay on the grass beside her.

Rhaegar suddenly appeared, approaching the tree. He was no longer dressed in his standard red and black, but wore plain brown leathers. His long silver-blond hair has been tied back. It seemed to Jon that he wanted to appear as inconspicuous as possible. Lyanna turned and looked up as he approached, her eyes widening in surprise. “Your Grace!” She swallowed, and appeared at a loss for words. “How did you know I would be here?” she finally asked.

“I didn’t,” the prince said, giving her a hesitant smile. “I’d hoped, my lady, but I didn’t know. I’ve been coming out to this beech tree quite often, in hopes of seeing you again.”

She blushed, smiling. “Where are your Kingsguard?” she said, looking around at the empty stretch of land between the lakeshore and the line of tents.

Rhaegar sat down on the grass next to her, the tourney sword between them. “Most of them were sleeping when I left. I made sure to go out while it was still dark. I imagine they’ll be waking now that the sun is up.”

“How did you get past them without anyone seeing you?” Lyanna asked, smirking.

“The same way I got past them as a boy,” he replied. “I went out the back. And how did you get past House Stark’s guards?”

Lyanna gave a breathy laugh. “It’s not that difficult in this place. Much harder in Winterfell. Going for a ride unaccompanied is out of the question, and I do so love to ride. My father is very protective of me, and can be rigid. I understand, of course, but I’m not a child. Nor do I need to be coddled. I can do everything boys can do, and more.”

Rhaegar gazed at her, his mouth curving into a small smile. “I have no doubt that you can, my lady. And what does your mother say?”

She sighed. “My lady mother died many years ago. She was stricken with a pox.”

“I’m sorry,” the prince said.

“I was very young when she died. My lord father has raised us on his own since. Many things take up his time and attention, so he relies on the guards and the rest of our household to keep an eye on me and my little brother. But sometimes when the castle is preoccupied with preparing for a feast, my brother and I can get through the Hunter’s Gate with no one noticing. It’s near the kitchens and so it’s always busy when there’s a feast going on. We haven’t been caught yet.” She then glanced at the prince. “It’s unfortunate you haven’t been dancing at any of the feasts here so far, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar pursed his lips. “The princess is newly with child and the maesters don’t want her to exert herself. I enjoyed watching the dances, though.” He smiled.

“I don’t remember an announcement of another royal babe on the way,” she said, playing with her fingers.

“There hasn’t been one,” replied the prince. “No one outside Dragonstone knows of it yet, except for you.”

She gave him an earnest look. “Well, I won’t tell anyone, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar nodded. “I’m glad to have met you. From the first moment I arrived, I wanted to go back to Dragonstone. But I don’t feel that way now, even though...” He smiled at her, and then sighed. “My father… Well, he doesn’t make things easy. My apologies for his behavior.”

“Was the king… always this way?” Lyanna questioned, running her hand through the blades of grass.

“No,” the prince said. “But that doesn’t mean he was easy to live with, even before. I wasn’t what a king would hope for in a firstborn son. I was more interested in books and music than being a warrior. I know my father cared for me, at least in his own way, but he had expectations and he made it known that I wasn’t doing my duty as his son by living up to them. But one day I was reading… something… and decided I had to take up a sword and learn. By the time I made myself into what my father wanted me to be, he was too lost in his own head to notice anything I did. I believe they call that irony. He then wanted me to marry and produce heirs and he chose the woman for me, whom I never spoke to until our wedding day, but he treats her and my daughter with disdain. I don't think it truly matters to him what I do. I don’t think it matters to anyone. But if I could just do something _great_ , be something great. If I could make a difference in the world... Being a prince is just something I was born to be, and someday I’ll be king. I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t earn it. I want to _earn_ something, something that truly matters. But my father… he’s never understood me.”

Lyanna frowned, her brows knitting. “Fathers have their expectations, and their demands. It doesn’t matter how we feel, we must do our duty.” Jon looked at her with sympathy, hearing regret and a hint of bitterness in her voice. He pondered for a moment over what Rhaegar had said, at what living with a father like Aerys might have been like, at the possible reasons why this prophecy of the prince that was promised had become so important to him, and the risks he was willing to take to ensure it was fulfilled.

The prince turned toward her, looking at her with a soft expression. “Daughters may have it the worst, I think, so I’ll stop whining.” He gave her a half smile, watching her cheeks redden. “Will you be at the list field later? It’s the final day for the joust.”

“Yes, I’ll be there,” she said enthusiastically. “I wonder who will get the champion’s purse.”

“Perhaps it will be me,” he replied with a grin. “Now that the Knight of the Laughing Tree has bowed out of the competition.” His eyes twinkled with humor.

Lyanna gave him a look of surprise. “You’re going to joust?”

Rhaegar nodded. “It will be a challenge, for certain. I’ll have to defeat yesterday’s victors, including four knights of the Kingsguard. It won’t be easy, especially as Arthur is one of them. He’s defeated me before, at the tourney that celebrated the birth of my brother five years ago, and was named champion. I defeated him in the tourney at Storm’s End a year later, but it took twelve lances to do it. Barristan the Bold got the better of me in the champion’s tilt, though, and I lost.”

“You have no business in the joust,” she said sternly, her face and voice hard. “You’re the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms. Someone could knock you off your horse. You could land on your head, and then where would we be? It’s a foolish idea.”

Seemingly taken aback at her forceful manner, Rhaegar stared at her. But as Jon watched, he saw a flicker of passion in his eyes, and thought perhaps the prince enjoyed being spoken to in such a way, something that most likely didn’t happen often.

Lyanna blinked, swallowing. “Uh… Your Grace, I didn’t mean…”

“I’ll keep your good advice in mind, my lady,” he replied, suppressing a smirk. He turned and looked out over the lake. “I seldom enter the lists at tournaments, but I put my name down last night. Truth be told, I enjoy my harp more than a lance. I’d rather play than fight, but I’m determined to be champion at this tourney. So, the joust it is.”

“Why must you be champion?” she asked, smiling at him.

The prince turned his head and gazed at her, his dark indigo eyes filled with warmth. After a long moment, he opened his mouth to speak, but was then interrupted by the sound of someone running behind them. Jon and Bran turned around to see their uncle Benjen had appeared a few yards in front of the tent line.

“Lyanna!” Benjen called out. He stopped and stared at his sister and the prince. “Ned knows you’ve run off on your own again. You better come back quick, before he sends the guards out looking for you.”

“I have to go, Your Grace,” she said, standing up and grabbing hold of her wooden tourney sword.

Rhaegar watched as she walked quickly over to her brother. “I will be sure to look for you at the joust,” he called out after her.

Lyanna halted once she reached Benjen, and turned around. “I’ll be cheering for you, Your Grace, and praying to the old gods that you don’t land on your head.”

“I appreciate your confidence in my abilities, my lady,” the prince replied with a grin. “I’ve never won a tourney before. Perhaps you should also pray to the new gods, just to be safe.”

She laughed, her eyes twinkling at him as she gave him a bright smile, before turning with her brother and disappearing among the tents, Rhaegar staring after her.

*****

Jon stood with Bran inside the Starks’ pavilion, once again in the arena. The stands were even more crowded than before, which he hadn’t thought possible. The grandstand housing the king and his royal court was off to the left. Aerys Targaryen appeared more attentive than usual. Princess Elia was also there, the perfect image of stoic, regal beauty, seated next to her brother, Prince Oberyn. Directly across the list field, opposite the royal pavilion, there was a gallery set up for House Whent, where the Lord of Harrenhal and his family sat watching.

Situated between House Stark’s pavilion and the royal court, was one set up for House Baratheon and its bannermen, the black stag sigil hanging down in front of it. Seated next to Stannis in their gallery, the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands was drinking heavily and laughing heartily, occasionally giving his brother a goodhearted slap on the shoulder. Not once did Stannis smile, Jon noticed.

Inside the pavilion designated for the Warden of the North, all the Starks were present, including Howland Reed, and House Stark’s lords bannermen. Lyanna sat in front between Eddard and Benjen, dressed in her dark grey gown with the embroidered direwolves. Unlike the other noble ladies filling the galleries around them, with their hair woven in elaborate braids or done up with netting and gemstones, her long dark brown hair fell wild and loose over her shoulders. Her eyes were peeled on the lists where the armored participants of the joust were usually set up. Defeated knights and their squires lingered there, including three of the Kingsguard.

“They’re awaiting the final tilt that will determine the champion,” Bran said. Jon’s stomach knotted. He knew the story, knew what was going to happen. For a moment, he wanted to stop it somehow, prevent its occurrence.

“Can’t you do something?” asked Jon. “So much suffering could be spared if only…”

He frowned. “The past is already written. I cannot change it. While it’s true thousands died because of what started at this tourney, think of the millions that would have died if you had never been born.”

Jon sighed. “It’s not as though I am unthankful for your faith in me, Bran, but millions are going to die, anyway. They may already be dead, as far as I know.”

“But you’re not,” he replied. “When you went up against Ramsay Bolton’s army, alone, the cavalry charging at you and arrows landing all around you, yet none striking you, do you think you survived purely by chance? Do you think you escaped the Night King and the Army of the Dead, and found me by accident? Because you were lucky? You’re still alive for a reason. You found me for a reason. Do you think you were granted life after death for nothing? You weren’t meant to die then, and you’re not meant to die now. There is still much for you to do.”

Jon silently contemplated his words. He then turned and glanced at him. “And what am I to do? I don’t suppose you have an answer for that.”

Sighing, Bran shook his head. “I don’t. I wish the future was as open to me as the past, but I can’t see it as clearly. But what little I do know, I know for certain, and I know survival depends on you.”

“I’m just one man,” he said, his voice full of frustration. He thought back to the cave. “I don’t even have a sword. And I’m not the only one still alive. Daenerys lives. Two of her dragons may still live. I suppose there’s hope in that. She could do more against the Night King than I can.”

Bran’s face darkened, and he paused before replying. “Yes, she has a role to play.”

Jon wondered what he meant, but his attention was drawn away by the sudden eruption of noise around them, and their conversation halted.

The loud trumpeting of the heralds signaled the joust was to begin, the crowd cheering and waving. One of the heralds then announced the name of Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard, and the crowd cheered accordingly as he rode his horse at a hard trot onto the list field. At the nearest end of the jousting field closest to the royal pavilion, the knight stationed himself, immaculate in white cloak and enameled armor. He sat atop a beautiful snow-white mare, slim and built for speed, the banner of the Kingsguard draped over the horse’s flanks, a golden crown surrounded by seven white swords.

The herald next announced Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone. Lyanna instantly leaned forward, her hands gripping the wooden rail in front of her. Adorned in night-black plate armor over golden ringmail, with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen decorated in rubies on its breastplate, and long streamers of red, orange, and gold silk flowing behind his helm like flames, Rhaegar cantered his black stallion onto the lists. While he positioned himself on the far end of the field opposite the royal pavilion, Jon ascertained from the cheering that the prince was the obvious favorite.

When all was ready, a shrill trumpet blast sounded and a herald dropped a flag. Ser Barristan and Prince Rhaegar charged toward each other, their lances lowered and shields raised, banners snapping in the wind, sand and dust kicking up from their horses’ hooves. They surged forward smoothly, each veterans of the joust, and when they reached the center of the lists, the prince deftly shifted his seat in the moment before impact. Both lances burst and splintered spectacularly, and although the knight’s had only broken against the black shield with the red dragon, his opponent’s had hit him square in the chest. When the horses had thundered past, Ser Barristan was on the ground and Rhaegar was at the end of the lists.

The crowd roared, so loud that it was almost deafening. Lyanna leapt to her feet, cheering, as did her brothers and all those sitting with them. Rhaegar and Barristan Selmy exchanged brief words and respectful nods, before the prince trotted his horse over to stand facing House Whent’s pavilion. A squire ran out to him, offering him a new lance and taking his broken one away along with his shield. Lord Walter Whent stood and made a customary speech praising the champion of the joust. He waited for a reply from the prince, but all he received was a slight bow of the head.

“Your Grace, you are the rightful claimant to the grand prize of three thousand gold dragons,” spoke the Lord of Harrenhal, his voice booming as to be heard by the crowd.

Cheering erupted again, but the prince shook his head. He spoke once the spectators quieted. “I did not enter the lists for gold, but I thank you, my lord. I know of an orphanage for girls in King’s Landing that will benefit greatly from your unparalleled generosity.”

Lyanna Stark smiled, gazing at the prince with a tender expression, as more cheers erupted from the crowd. Walter Whent made a face as though he smelled something putrid and shook his head, but a moment later he smiled and carried on with the ceremony. “Prince Rhaegar, it is now your duty to name the fair lady of your choice to be this tourney’s queen of love and beauty.” He then placed a crown of blue winter roses on the tip of the prince’s lance.

A cheer went up from the crowd as Rhaegar gripped the reins of his stallion and turned from Lord Whent’s pavilion. He rode along the galleries, the lords and ladies cheering inside along with the smallfolk in the stands behind them, moving toward the royal grandstand. Jon watched Rhaegar ride right past the royal court, where Princess Elia sat staring at her husband as he rode by. The cheers from the crowd lessened and an air of confusion filled the arena as Rhaegar continued riding, passing by House Baratheon’s gallery.

Coming to a stop in front of the Starks, Rhaegar looked up at Lyanna. Most of those inside House Stark’s pavilion seemed frozen in disbelief, staring in bewilderment, all except the girl gazing down at the prince. Her look was all tenderness, but Jon thought she also detected sadness in her gaze. Her breathing quickened and he saw her brown eyes filling with tears. Rhaegar tilted his lance and lowered it forward, the crown of blue roses sliding onto Lyanna’s lap. Without a word, he smiled and gave her a bow of the head, and then turned and cantered away toward the champions’ tent, a streak of silk flames flowing behind his helm.

The crowd was quiet for a moment, but then began buzzing with conversation. The lords and ladies filling the galleries stared at the Starks. Princess Elia’s brows knitted as she looked over at them, seemingly just as surprised and confused as everyone else. Lyanna’s face had reddened and she sat staring at the crown on her lap. Eddard was grim, his mouth a hard, thin line. Enraged, Brandon stood and began shouting about the prince besmirching his sister’s honor. He stepped toward her and lifted the crown, tearing it apart with his hands. Blue rose petals littered the air, falling onto Lyanna, Eddard, and the ground below.

“She is a betrothed maiden,” Brandon raged, red in the face. “What was he thinking? He’s not going to get away with this.”

He quickly turned away from their bench, but Eddard protested. “Don’t! Leave it be, or it will only become worse.”

Robert Baratheon suddenly appeared, laughing as two of the Starks’ bannermen grabbed Brandon, holding him back. “I could hear you shouting even from where I sat. Thought I’d come over before things got out of hand.”

“Do you think this is amusing?” Brandon retorted as the lords released him. “She’s your woman, and he’s your cousin. What are you going to do about it?”

“Calm down,” said Robert, slapping him on the shoulder, his voice full of humor. “Rhaegar was only giving Lyanna her due. She’s beautiful and the realm ought to know it. There’s little respect for the North down here, and little has been said about our match. As my cousin, he was only paying his respects, I’m sure. He knows we’re to be wed within the next year, and it’s only right this receives the attention it deserves.”

Brandon cursed and walked off. The Lord of Storm’s End sighed. “Just let him go, Ned,” he spoke to his friend who had stood up to follow. “I’m sure he’ll be fine if we give him some time to cool off.”

Eddard shook his head. “You don’t know Brandon like I do, Robert. He’s liable to set upon the prince and do something foolish. We will have a _real_ problem, then.”

Jon watched his mother all through this discussion, while she sat silently on the bench, ignored by the men around her. She kept her face down and her hands in her lap, nervously playing with her fingers. Stealthily, Benjen reached down to the floor of the pavilion and picked up every rose petal he could find. While Robert and Eddard debated about going after Brandon, he quietly placed the blue rose petals into Lyanna’s hands. She held them in her palm, her thumb brushing over their velvety softness. She then enclosed them in her fist, concealing the blue petals from sight. A moment later, tears were rolling down her cheeks.

*****

The scene faded away with the familiar sound of wood knocking against wood, and another rose in its place. They were standing inside a modest tent. An oil lantern stood on a small circular table and a mattress lay on the floor against the left side wall. Lyanna was moving about purposefully, packing an open cedar chest. Her gowns must have been packed away, as she was once again in her belted grey tunic, brown leathers, and breeches. She unfolded a dark grey hooded cloak and set it on the table. It seemed to Jon she was readying for travel. The Starks must have been preparing to leave Harrenhal.

The flap of the tent entrance opened and in walked Benjen. “Ned and Brandon are going up to the castle.”

“What?” Lyanna said, her eyes widening in surprise. “I thought Brandon decided not to go to that council meeting. And Ned was so against it. I thought we were leaving.”

Her brother nodded. “Robert Baratheon came by our lord’s tent last night and convinced Brandon to go. I think Ned is going just to make sure Brandon won’t fight the prince.”

Sighing, Lyanna closed her carved chest and sat down on top of it, frowning.

“Lya,” Benjen said hesitantly. “Why don’t you just tell them that the prince is your friend?”

“They wouldn’t understand, Ben.”

Before he could reply, the tent flap opened again and they were joined by their elder brothers. “Benjen, you’re coming along,” said Brandon.

“What?” Eddard threw him a disapproving look, his brows furrowing. “He’s too young for such things. Besides, this meeting is dangerous. It’s bad enough we’re going.”

“He’s nearly fourteen, Ned,” Brandon replied, clearly frustrated. “He’ll soon be a man grown. He needs to learn the ways of the world.”

The decision final, Eddard gave up his protest. The three Stark brothers moved toward the tent entrance. “Can’t I come to the meeting as well?” Lyanna asked, standing up and crossing her arms. “Why must I be left behind? I’m as much a Stark as you three.”

They turned back around and stared at her. Brandon’s face hardened into a scowl. “You’re not going anywhere near Prince Rhaegar, do you understand?”

Eddard sighed. “Finish packing, sister. We’re leaving for Winterfell as soon as this is over.”

They then made their way out of the tent. As the flap closed, Jon thought he heard Benjen chuckle and tell his brothers, “Meetings aren’t for girls, anyway.”

Rolling her eyes, Lyanna sat back down on the chest in a huff. Not long after, the rear wall of the tent started to rip. She stood, eyes wide, staring at the wall. The tip of a blade, as pale as milkglass and alive with light, cut a straight line up from the bottom of the tent as easily as a hot knife cutting through butter. The newly made tent flaps opened to the breeze, and in stepped Ser Arthur Dayne, dressed in his scaled armor and cloak as white as fresh-fallen snow.

Lyanna’s mouth fell open as she watched the Kingsguard sheath his sword. A moment later, Prince Rhaegar followed, entering the tent. He was again dressed in his minstrel disguise, complete with the red half-cape that hung over one shoulder and the red floppy hat. Unable to keep a straight face, Lyanna began to giggle.

Arthur Dayne knitted his brows. “Usually when one greets the crown prince, they bow,” he said seriously.

“Lady Stark doesn’t need to bow to anyone,” Rhaegar said. He then tilted his head toward the tent flaps, directing the Kingsguard to leave.

Ser Arthur glanced between them for a moment, and departed the tent. Lyanna’s laughter dissipated and she sighed. “What are you doing here, Your Grace?”

The prince shook his head, giving her a small smile. “Please don’t call me that anymore, my lady. _Rhaegar_.”

She smiled sweetly, blushing. “Okay. Rhaegar. But then you must drop the ‘my lady’ courtesies as well.” She grinned. “So, are you going to take off that ridiculous hat?”

Chuckling, he removed the red floppy minstrel hat from his head, his long silver-blond hair falling past his shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” she asked again. “I thought you were to be at the council meeting up at the castle. Aren’t you the whole reason it’s happening?”

“I see your brothers are open with you,” he replied, sitting down in the wooden chair next to the table. “The meeting is supposed to be the best kept secret in the realm. Well, I’m not going to the meeting. Neither are any of the Kingsguard, on my orders. I meant to, and I know it must be done, but now’s not the right time. There’s too much at stake to risk it.”

Lyanna stepped over to the cedar chest, sitting down on the closed lid. She leaned toward him, her voice earnest. “Why are you here?”

Rhaegar looked at her, frowning. “Once all those in the meeting realize I won’t be coming, your brothers will be returning. I imagine it won’t be long now. I just had to see you again, and this is my one chance. You’ll be going home to Winterfell, and I’ll be returning to Dragonstone.”

“Is that the real reason you’re skipping out on your duty?” she asked quietly. “To see me?”

“Duty,” he sighed, his brows furrowed.

Lyanna looked down, playing with her fingers in her lap. “Why did you give me the crown of roses?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

The prince glanced at her. “Honor compelled me.”

“Honor,” she scoffed. “Honor should have compelled you to name your wife, not a betrothed maid.”

“You’re right,” he said, a contrite expression on his face as he leaned forward and stared down at the floor. “My apologies for any trouble I may have caused you and your family. My actions weren’t honorable. But where is the honor in being betrothed to a drunken lech? And… you can’t name someone the queen of love and beauty when you love someone else, can you?”

Lyanna gazed at him, clearly moved by his words, and smiled. After a hesitant, nervous glance to see her reaction, Rhaegar returned her emotion, her smile. He reached out his hand to her. She slowly raised hers to join with his, but they were suddenly interrupted by the abrupt reappearance of Arthur Dayne, and she pulled her hand back.

“Your Grace.” There was a sense of urgency in his voice.

“Already?” the prince said, disappointed. He quickly stood. “They must be returning from the castle. Write to me, Lyanna. Please.”

She stood, watching him move toward the opening in the tent. “I don’t know how I would be able t…”

Rhaegar stared at her, his eyes pleading. “If anyone can find a way, you can.” He lowered his voice to a whisper as Ser Arthur exited the tent. “You must write to me. I can’t go back to Dragonstone without hope of ever hearing from you again. _Please_.”

Lyanna walked toward him until she stood mere inches away. “I promise I will try. Besides, I have yet to tell you all about the Long Night. You’ll never get the real story from those southern books of yours.”

He smiled down at her, his eyes sparkling. He opened his mouth to speak, but then Arthur Dayne lifted one of the flaps. “Rhaegar! You need to get out of here. _Now_.”

The crown prince donned his red minstrel hat, winked at Lyanna, and then disappeared through the opening in the tent wall.

The scene in front of Jon began to fade. Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, who sparkled in youthful delight, who forsook duty and honor, set aside justice and truth, and all for their love, brought about the deaths and suffering of thousands, including their own families. A deep gloom came over Jon, knowing that nothing but tragedy lay in store for the two people who would become his parents. 


	38. The Pact Of Ice And Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They thought her mad, Dany realized. Perhaps she was. She would know soon enough. _If I look back I am lost._ " ~ A Game of Thrones, Daenerys X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for waiting patiently for an update. I know it's been a long time. I greatly appreciate all your kudos, supportive comments, and constructive feedback! I hope you enjoy the new chapter.
> 
> Sidenote: Since it's been so long since I updated, I thought I'd remind readers that the characters are not all on the same timeline. Some events may happen simultaneously across several POVs, but some don't. I do try to give indications in the text for when exactly something is happening if a character is on a different timeline than the others in the chapter.

With the familiar clacking sound of wood striking wood, Jon was suddenly standing with Bran inside Dragonstone. Princess Elia Martell, plainly pregnant, walked down the corridor of black stone, flanked by two of her Dornish household guards, her beautiful face dark and angry. As Jon got his bearings, he realized the princess was heading towards Rhaegar Targaryen’s library. He and Bran followed.

Prince Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard was standing outside the entrance to the library. “My Princess,” he greeted, bowing his head.

“Announce my presence,” she said, her voice cold and commanding.

The Kingsguard pursed his lips, hesitating for a moment. He then nodded. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

Not willing to wait, Elia Martell walked behind him into the library and stood next to him as he announced her to those in the room. Jon quickly followed behind, gaining entrance to the library. Seated at the large table the shape of dragon’s wings in the middle of the vast room were Rhaegar Targaryen and a maester. Ser Arthur Dayne stood in front of the window. They were the only ones inside.

“Hello, my dear,” Prince Rhaegar greeted her without looking up from his book, his voice distant and disinterested. “What brings you to the library?”

Elia Martell’s eyes narrowed. “Leave us,” she ordered the guards.

Her personal guards and Prince Lewyn made to turn out of the room as well as the maester. Arthur Dayne stared at Rhaegar until the prince glanced at him and nodded. The Sword of the Morning then left the room. Soon the married couple were the only ones remaining inside the library, save the unnoticed presence of Bran and Jon.

“Ashara Dayne is with child,” the princess said in a voice cold and sharp as steel. “Your child.”

The crown prince sighed. “I know. Arthur informed me.”

His wife’s face hardened. “How could you have been so stupid? You should have prevented this.”

Rhaegar Targaryen slammed his book shut. “You were the one who threw her at me. The blame isn’t mine alone, is it? I haven’t touched Lady Dayne in months, not since before the tourney at Harrenhal.”

“That makes two of us,” Elia Martell replied. Her gaze shifted from her husband and she began to walk about the room. “At first, I thought you might’ve become so infatuated with Ashara Dayne that you naturally were neglecting your duty in the marriage bed. But soon I learned that you’d lost all interest in her as well, if there’d been any genuine interest to begin with. Somehow I’m doubtful of that.”

“Taking a bedwarmer was something _you_ insisted on, something you wanted to control,” the prince said defensively. “I’m sure she did her duty well and brought you regular reports.”

Pausing her stroll around the room, the princess glared at her husband from the corner of her eye. “Yes. She did her duty. I know she hasn’t been to your bed since before the tourney. I know you are often writing letters, and then pacing the castle for days on end, impatiently awaiting ravens from the North. And don’t think I am ignorant of who you are writing. Oh yes, the Lady Ashara did her duty to me. And now she must leave.”

Prince Rhaegar gave her a look of confusion. “Leave? To go where? She’s pregnant with my child.”

“Your bastard,” she replied venomously.

“I thought the Dornish had a rather lenient view when it came it bastards,” the crown prince said blithely.

Princess Elia spun around, fully facing him once again. “We are not in Dorne!” she exclaimed in frustration. Emotion had crept into her face, her voice, tears welling up in her eyes. “Just because I _speak_ with an accent doesn’t mean I _think_ with an accent. I know what they say about me in King’s Landing, what they whisper about me in the royal court. That you have an invalid for a wife, who will never be fit to wear a crown, to be your queen. That I’m frail and sickly and unworthy of you! I know the slanderous lies spread about me by the Lannister girl and the simpering snakes she surrounds herself with. The nobles in King’s Landing. The royal court. The small council. They all hate me. The king himself hates me! He hates my child, his own flesh and blood! News of your bastard will be the fuel that keeps their fires burning, as if crowning the Stark girl at the tourney hadn’t been enough!”

Rhaegar Targaryen leaned back in his chair. “If you send Lady Dayne away with child, news will surely get out. If she stays here, this information will remain protected. The Dornish make up our household here. I made sure of it. There isn’t a single servant or soldier who isn’t loyal to you, and to House Martell. Nothing damaging to you will come from this place. But if you send Ashara Dayne away, pregnant, you’ll just be feeding her to the lions. News of her condition will surely spread and enflame the talk against us in the royal court.”

“And how soon before the Lord of Winterfell learns you’re writing silly love letters to his betrothed daughter?” the princess said icily. “What do you think he’ll do when he finds out? What do you think the people will say about us then?”

“He won’t find out,” replied Prince Rhaegar. “She’s careful. She’s very smart and more than capable of discretion.”

Elia Martell heaved a frustrated sigh. “Lady Ashara may stay here until she gives birth, then she must leave after she recovers. We’ll send her home or perhaps to the Red Keep, where she can join the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. This may arouse less suspicion than if we sent her away straight to Starfall. The bastard will have to leave, too. We’ll send it to one of the orphanages you dote on in King’s Landing.”

The prince’s mouth became a hard line, his face hardening. “You don’t have the authority to send my child away.”

“Like hell,” Princess Elia hissed in return, her voice full of venom, leaning over and placing her palms on the table across from the prince. “I am your wife. Your bastard will not be raised here with my children. It will be sent away from Dragonstone. And you will stop this flirtation with the Stark girl. You and I will have peace on these terms.”

Rhaegar Targaryen said nothing and merely gazed at her thoughtfully.

The princess sighed and righted herself with an air of dignified regality. “I will leave you for now and let you ponder over what I’ve said.”

Prince Rhaegar watched her approach the library door, and when she grasped the handle and pulled, he spoke. “Elia…”

Turning back from the open doorway to look at her husband, the princess stared at him expectantly.

“It’s not a flirtation. I’m in love with her.”

Elia Martell glared at him for a long moment, before pivoting and storming off from the library in wordless fury.

Jon watched Rhaegar stare after his wife long after she’d departed. “That’s why he left the princess and went after my mother? Just for love? He’d risk so much just for…”

“It was love, yes,” answered Bran. “But there was much more to it than that. You’ll see.”

The scene in front of Jon’s eyes then began to fade, the wooden clacking sound filling his ears.

*****

Samwell Tarly stood in front of the Seal Gate, facing two guards who made no attempts to hide their irritation at having been interrupted by his request to speak with the Lord of White Harbor. “I have important business concerning the King in the North,” he told them.

Their eyes widened momentarily, but then their expressions changed to suspicion. “And what sort of business is that?” one of them asked.

“Our business is with Lord Manderly, and him alone.”

Ned Dayne glanced nervously between Sam and the guards, while Gilly and Alleras looked on with confident smiles.

The guards briefly looked them over and then nodded. “Lucky for you, his lordship has just recently arrived from Moat Cailin and is holding audience today. Head up the Stair. When you reach the New Castle, ask to be presented.”

Sam, Gilly, Alleras, and Ned Dayne proceeded through the open gate. Castle Stair was a street of broad white stone steps that led up the hill to the gates of the New Castle. As they climbed, they passed by marble mermaids cradling bowls of whale oil in their arms. At night, the bowls would burn to light the way. When they reached the top of the hill, they turned to look down on the harbors. It didn’t take long for them to spot the three grey war galleys adorned with Stark banners, _Winter’s Song_ , _Wolf Wind_ , and _Lady Lyanna_.

Bolstered by the sight, Sam turned and walked quickly towards the castle gate. Posted at the gate were two members of the household guard wearing cloaks of blue-green wool and holding silver tridents in their hands instead of spears. A long red beard adorned one of their faces, while the other guard appeared younger with a round scarred face and only a stubble of a dark beard. The guards each wore a bemused expression at the sight of them. At their approach, Sam requested a private audience with Lord Manderly.

The red bearded guard spoke first. “A man of the Night’s Watch, a woman with her babe, a lad, and a…” He paused, glancing at the young man from Sunspear.

Smirking, Alleras nodded. “A Dornishman.”

“Lord Manderly isn’t holding any private audiences today,” the guard replied, glancing suspiciously from Alleras and back to Sam.

“His lordship is in Merman’s Court,” said the younger guard. “You can address him there the same as the others.”

Sam pursed his lips. “But we have important matters to discuss that greatly concern the King in the North.”

The guards chuckled. “As does everyone else. Make your way inside and speak your peace along with the rest of them.” The guard with the red beard then shouted, and another appeared from just inside the castle gates, who was instructed to lead them inside to the court.

Sighing, the companions followed the blue-green cloak and silver trident through the gate, entering the castle. Its walls were decorated with faded banners, rusted swords and broken shields, and wooden figures from the prows of old ships, all remnants of ancient battles. They were soon led to two large doors flanked by marble mermen. The guards outside the court threw open the doors, and a herald standing just inside turned to stare at them. Sam stepped forward and gave his name.

The herald then slammed the butt of his staff against the old plank floor. “Samwell Tarly of the Night’s Watch,” he called out in a loud, ringing voice.

As Sam and his companions stepped inside Merman’s Court, it felt like to them as if they were walking into another world. The walls, floor, and ceiling were made of wooden planks cleverly notched together and decorated with all manner of sea creatures. At the far end of the great hall there was a dais with a large cushioned throne. As they made their way towards the dais, they walked on painted crabs and clams and starfish, half-hidden among twisting black seaweed fronds and the bones of drowned sailors. Shoals of herring and codfish swam between the tall, arched windows. Higher up near the rafters, where old fishing nets hung, the surface of the sea was painted. On the right side of the court, a painted war galley rested against the rising sun; to the left, a damaged old cog with rags for sails raced before a storm. Behind the dais, an enormous kraken and grey leviathan were fighting beneath the painted waves.

When Sam first planned on speaking with Lord Manderly, he’d hoped on meeting inside a private chamber. Merman’s Court was crowded, full of men and women, septons and holy sisters, nobles and smallfolk, tradesmen and merchants. On the dais, Wyman Manderly greeted him with pale blue eyes and silence. The cushioned throne was large enough to seat three men, yet the lord filled it easily. He sat upright in his seat, proud and commanding, his legs splayed and his hands resting on the arms of the throne.

To the right of the throne, stood a tall and heavy man with slate-grey eyes and a beard as grey as a winter sky. He had the appearance of a knight, adorned with silver armor. His greaves and gauntlet were engraved with a black metallic inlay with the look of flowing seaweed fronds. He wore a helm with the look of a merman king, complete with a mother of pearl crown and a beard of jet and jade. Standing to the left of the throne was a maester as large as Lord Manderly, with rosy cheeks and a mop of golden curls atop his head. Seated on a cushioned stool at the foot of the throne was a plump pink woman. Behind the grey-bearded knight were two young maidens who looked like sisters. The elder wore her long brown hair bound in a braid. The younger, no more than seventeen years, had a longer braid of dyed green hair. Sam could not have even guessed at their names.

“You stand before Wyman Manderly,” spoke the maester. “Lord of White Harbor and Warden of the White Knife, Shield of the Faith, Defender of the Dispossessed, Lord Marshal of the Mander, a Knight of the Order of the Green Hand.” After a brief pause, he continued. “In the Merman’s Court, it is customary for vassals and petitioners to kneel.”

His companions all turned their heads to gaze nervously at Sam. He gave a quick nod of his head. Alleras and Ned Dayne bent their knees while Gilly tried her best to dip in a curtsy while holding her child in her arms. Those on the dais then stared at Sam, who hadn’t moved. The Night’s Watch didn’t bend the knee to lords of Westeros or take sides in political matters. But if he _were_ inclined to ever kneel, it would only be to the one person he’d ever want to give his allegiance to. It seemed to him that kneeling before this lord would suggest that the king he’d choose to serve was a lesser man.

“I am not a vassal of your lordship,” he spoke in front of the crowded court. “And I have not come as a petitioner. I am a man of the Night’s Watch and I only seek to aid Jon Snow, the King in the North.”

The plump lady on the stool narrowed her eyes. “I can’t recall the last time a representative of the Night’s Watch set foot in our court.”

Sam shook his head. “I am not here on behalf of the Night’s Watch nor on any official matter regarding them. I am only here as a friend who desperately needs to reach Jon Snow in Winterfell as quickly as possible. I only request passage north along the White Knife. My companions and I will then make the rest of the journey on foot, or by horse and carriage if we can.”

“And who are these companions of yours, Tarly?” Lord Wyman asked, squinting at Sam.

“Lord Edric of House Dayne,” answered Sam. “Alleras, an acolyte of the Citadel, and Gilly, who once lived beyond the Wall and knows of the horrors we all face now that winter is here.”

The men and ladies on the dais all turned their heads to stare wide-eyed at Gilly. Lord Wyman turned back to Sam. “As a matter of fact, I was just with the King in the North. My party turned east from the kingsroad while he continued north to Winterfell. The meeting in the Riverlands went badly. None of us know what the dragon queen will do now. By all accounts, this Daenerys is the daughter of Aerys and she’s won back the throne. Reports say she recently made a triumphant return to King’s Landing. The dragons are back, Tarly. Enemies to the north, enemies to the south. How can you help Jon Snow?”

Sam hesitated. “We have something for him. A weapon to aid him in the wars to come. The White Walkers are coming. Eventually there will be no stopping them. The Night King is amassing an army larger than the world has ever seen. The Wall won’t hold them back forever. We have what Jon Snow needs. A sword whose value is beyond comprehension. Please help us reach him, my lord.”

“I should risk my ships and my people to take you north to Winterfell so that you can give Jon Snow a sword?” Lord Wyman said, arching his brow. “Didn’t you just hear me tell you there are dragons about? The Mad King’s daughter has reclaimed the Iron Throne. The ice demons of the North threaten our borders. My people and my ships will remain safely in our harbors, within our walls. This winter will no doubt be the hardest one we’ve seen for centuries. It is honorable that you wish to help…”

“Daenerys Targaryen has no right to the Iron Throne,” spoke up Alleras. “She’s not the rightful heir.”

Sam turned a wide-eyed gaze at his friend, shaking his head emphatically.

Alleras ignored him. “Jon Snow is the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, who were wed in secret in the Riverlands. He isn’t just the King in the North, he’s the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. We have what he needs to win this war, something that’s more of a weapon than any sword or any ancient prophecy – we have knowledge.”

The court went silent. The hum of muted conversations came to a still. Those on the dais stared, dumbfounded. Finally, the maiden with the long green braid stepped forward. “Did you say _ancient prophecy?”_

“Yes, my lady,” Alleras answered.

“And this prophecy is about Jon Snow?” she asked.

Sam and Alleras exchanged glances with Gilly and Ned Dayne before turning to face the dais. “Yes,” said Sam. “He is the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire.”

She gazed down at them, her mouth falling open slightly. “Does Jon Snow know this about himself? About this prophecy? Does he know he’s the rightful heir to the Iron Throne?”

Sam and his companions shook their heads in response. “Not yet, my lady,” he replied. “We hope to tell him before it’s too late.”

The girl turned a stricken face on Lord Manderly. “Grandfather, please. We must help them get to Winterfell.”

“Aye, child,” Lord Wyman said in exasperation. He turned his steely gaze on Sam and Alleras. “But first you’ll tell us how you came to know all this. We’ll go to my chambers.”

The maester with the golden curls promptly dismissed those gathered in the court, while guards came forward to escort Sam and his companions to Lord Manderly’s private chambers.

*****

As the Dragonstone library scene faded in front of Jon’s eyes, another just as quickly appeared before him. Prince Rhaegar was pacing around a black stone corridor while Arthur Dayne and Lewyn Martell stood sentinel outside a large door. Several moments later, the door opened and two maesters stepped out into the hallway. Jon recognized the younger of the two as having been the maester sitting with the prince earlier before Elia Martell had dismissed the room. The elder had a head of thick grey hair and was adorned in traditional grey robes and a maester’s chain of many metals. The younger was more than a head shorter and bald as an egg.

“Your Grace,” the maesters said almost in unison. Jon thought their faces looked rather grave.

“The princess?” Rhaegar asked expectantly.

The elder maester clasped his hands. “She nearly died from the ordeal, and for several moments we were afraid we would lose her, but she will recover. She’ll need to keep to her bed for several weeks, at least, perhaps months.”

Sighing in obvious relief, Rhaegar closed his eyes and bowed his head for a moment. He then raised his head, his eyes widening, anxious concern etched across his face. “And the child? Did it survive the birth?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” answered the younger maester. “You have a healthy son. A raven will be sent to the Sept of Baelor before the day is out. The capital will soon hear the ringing of its bells.”

The prince’s anxiety faded, and he smiled tremulously. “I have a son.”

The maesters exchanged knowing glances and a shared nod. “Your Grace…” the elder spoke as the prince had begun to move to the door.

“Yes, Archmaester Gyldayn?” Prince Rhaegar said over his shoulder as he reached for the handle.

“The Princess Elia…”

Rhaegar Targaryen halted abruptly and turned, anxiety once again crept across his face. “You said she’d be fine.”

Gyldayn took a step forward and spoke in a reassuring voice. “Indeed, she will be. I have no doubt she will recover from the birth of your son. But the princess will never be able to bear another child.”

The prince seems to be rendered speechless, his mouth falling open, and he simply stared at the maesters.

“To save her life, we had to take severe measures,” said the other maester, shaking his bald head, his chain clinking softly. “The procedure has left her unable to birth anymore children.”

Prince Rhaegar lowered his face and stared at the floor, his brows furrowed with the distress he seemed to feel. “But there must be a third,” he muttered, low under his breath. The prince then nodded at the maesters and quietly entered Princess Elia’s chamber.

Jon turned and caught his brother’s eye. _Cousin_ , he gently chided himself. Their gaze held for a moment. “Third?”

“The dragon has three heads,” Bran replied. “Rhaegar also believed the prophecy about Azor Ahai born again.”

“Aye,” he said. “The red woman told me. _Born amidst smoke and salt, beneath a bleeding star._ I know the prophecy.”

Bran nodded and stared out the window, where the winter storm still raged, bolts of lightning streaking across the sky. “The prince that was promised was prophesied to come from the Targaryen line, specifically through Rhaegar’s parents. Azor Ahai reborn is meant to waken dragons from stone during a time of cold darkness. As the promised prince would descend from House Targaryen, Rhaegar believed the last hero reborn would be a _three-headed dragon_ – three heroes fighting as one to defeat the enemy.”

Jon considered him. “Was he right?”

Turning to meet his gaze, Bran pursed his lips. “Rhaegar’s interpretation of these prophecies often changed. The prince that was promised and Azor Ahai reborn may be connected in some way. I wish I could see the future as clearly as I can see the past. How this war will turn out in the end remains to be seen, but we all have roles to play.”

Sighing, Jon pondered Bran’s words as the maesters faded and were gone. Another scene rose in front of him, once again in the library. Rhaegar Targaryen was sitting at the table the shape of dragon’s wings, peering over an open book. Ser Arthur Dayne again stood in front of the large window, adorned as always in his white cloak and intricate armor. It was storming outside Dragonstone. Thunder boomed, and lightning sparked across the sky as snow pellets fell upon the castle’s walls. A torch burned in every sconce and silver candles were lit on each surface, providing much needed light as the storm screamed outside.

Archmaester Gyldayn then entered the library, his arms full of crisp white parchments, inks, and quills. He placed them on the table, before going to one of the book shelves and gazing over the many titles. He soon pulled a heavy leather-bound book from the shelf and returned to the table, seating himself across from the prince. He opened the leather book cover and the two sat in comfortable silence for some moments before the archmaester spoke.

“White ravens have _again_ begun arriving from the Citadel, Your Grace. Winter is officially _still_ here. The spring we enjoyed for so short a time was nothing but a false one.” Gyldayn paused, his eyes scanning over the contents of the page he read. “The Lady Ashara will likely give birth sometime tonight, or possibly in the morning.”

Prince Rhaegar glanced over at Ser Arthur, the two friends exchanging pointed looks. “Very well,” the crown prince replied, as the Kingsguard made for the door.

The archmaester eyed Rhaegar Targaryen thoughtfully but didn’t speak until after Arthur Dayne had left the library. “And what’s to become of the child, Your Grace? The Princess Elia has ordered it to be evicted from Dragonstone immediately after the birth.”

“Ser Arthur and I have made arrangements on the mainland, Maester Gyldayn,” replied the prince. “The child will be properly cared for.”

Gyldayn nodded and said nothing more. He grabbed a quill, sharpened it, and unstoppered a small pot of thick black ink. Glancing at the open book, he read for a moment and then began to write. Prince Rhaegar smirked as he watched the archmaester move his quill over the parchment. “What are you working on?” he questioned. “Still determined to write the complete history of House Targaryen?”

Archmaester Gyldayn smiled. “Aye. I’ve reached the Dance of the Dragons. Fascinating stuff.”

Frowning, Rhaegar Targaryen hummed. “Not a pretty period in our history.”

“Do you want me to leave it out, Your Grace?” the archmaester asked, lifting a challenging brow.

“Certainly not,” the prince said goodhumoredly. He smiled again. “That would never do for an archmaester of the Citadel. And what are you writing now? Prince Daemon’s assault on Harrenhal, perhaps? Or the Dance over Shipbreaker Bay? Where Lucerys and his dragon Arrax fell, defeated by Prince Aemond and his dragon Vhagar?”

Gyldayn shook his head. “Earlier days of the civil war, actually. I haven’t reached the battles yet. The blacks and greens are busy garnering support for their sides. I’m currently writing about the Pact of Ice and Fire.”

“The Pact… Of Ice and Fire?” the prince looked at the maester, surprised and quizzical.

“Yes, I believe that’s what it formally was called,” Gyldayn said. “Maybe you should read more history instead of keeping your nose stuck in books about myths and legends, Your Grace.” The maester eyed the prince’s stunned expression. “What surprises you so?”

Rhaegar Targaryen heaved a frustrated sigh. “It’s just that I’ve asked you several times, not to mention the archmaesters of the Citadel, about _the song of ice and fire_ , and every one of you denied having any knowledge of it.”

The archmaester fought a smile. “This isn’t a song, Your Grace. The Pact of Ice and Fire was an agreement, an alliance of sorts, between two Houses. Well, between one House and one half of a broken House.”

“What two Houses?” the prince asked with a direct, unflinching stare.

“Stark and Targaryen,” replied Gyldayn. “At the start of the civil war, Prince Jacaerys flew his dragon to visit House Arryn, House Manderly, and finally House Stark in Winterfell to gain their support for his mother, Queen Rhaenyra. It’s said that Prince Jacaerys made Lord Cregan Stark many promises in exchange for the military power of the North. He even promised that a Targaryen princess would marry into House Stark, to further solidify their alliance by joining their Houses in marriage. Of course, a royal princess never married into the Starks, so that part of the pact wasn’t upheld, but Lord Cregan did receive a great many rewards in the end for his loyal support of King Aegon III.”

The prince simply stared, swallowing hard. To Jon, it appeared as if a colossal debate was warring inside his head. The archmaester went back to reading his book. Finally, Rhaegar Targaryen spoke. “The song of ice and fire belongs to the prince that was promised,” he said, his voice full of realization. “It’s his song. I thought my son…” The prince shook his head. “But I’ve been wrong… So wrong. How can the song of ice and fire belong to Aegon if he knows nothing of ice? He has the blood of the dragon, and he’ll have a heart full of fire, I’m sure of it. But that isn’t enough, is it? The savior of the world would need to be more. The prince that was promised is something else entirely. Ice and fire… Fire and ice. Targaryen _and_ Stark.”

“Your Grace,” the archmaester said with a patient sigh, laying down his quill. “You put too much stock in stories of myth and legend. These Others you believe are a great threat to Westeros are nothing more than a tale to frighten children. No living man has ever seen one. _If_ they ever existed, they’ve been gone for thousands of years. There is no ancient enemy we need to fear.”

“Hand over two of those small pieces of parchment,” Prince Rhaegar said in reply. “I’ll need one of your quills and some ink as well.”

Archmaester Gyldayn did as commanded. He studied the prince quizzically. “And to whom are you writing, Your Grace, if I may ask?”

The prince dipped a sharpened quill in the black ink. “I’m sending ravens to Winterfell and to King’s Landing to the High Septon.”

“Is that truly necessary, Your Grace?” Gyldayn asked. “What can Rickard Stark possibly do for you? Or the High Septon? I can assure you they won’t put faith in tales of the Others and supposed prophecies of their return and princes destined to save the world.”

Rhaegar Targaryen didn’t reply or even look up from his writing. It wasn’t long before he had finished and began rolling up both parchments. “Thank you for all you’ve done to assist with Princess Elia and the difficult birth, Archmaester. Feel free to make use of this library for the remainder of your stay. I wish you good fortune when you return to the Citadel.” At that, the crown prince then stood from the table and strode towards the library door, quickly disappearing behind it.

*****

Inside the passage, Dany lifted a torch down from the wall and turned right, following the trickling sound of the underground stream. She silently followed the path as it winded its way downwards, until the scent and sound of rushing water filled her senses. She wedged the torch between some large rocks near the bank of the stream, illuminating the surface and the walls around her. She moved to lower the metal tin into the water, but anger rose up within her and she tossed the tin to the ground next to her feet, cursing the swamp girl and Jon Snow and his crippled brother.

Sitting down on the bank, setting the dragonglass arrowhead on the ground beside her, Dany felt as if her head was full of poison. She’d learned long ago that there was no such thing as an action without impunity. Everything she did had consequences. Everything. She wanted to close her eyes and let the rushing sounds of the stream clear the cobwebs from her mind.

After several moments, she dipped her feet into the cool water and it immediately clouded. Frowning, she stared down at her hands. They too were stained with dirt. She dipped her hands into the stream, swirling small circles on the surface before removing them from the water. Continuing to sit on the bank in silence, she allowed her hands to dry.

Looking down at the dragonglass arrowhead beside her, Dany picked it up and placed it in her palm. Sighing, she gathered her long, silver-blond hair and tried to comb out the snags with her fingers and the arrowhead. She did her best to tie up her hair in a knot behind her head, using the smooth dragonglass to hold it in place. Gone were her maids to perfume her with oils, scrape the dirt from her pores, and sprinkle her with spices while they brushed her hair until it shone like spun silver. She gazed down at the woolen rags that adorned her body. Gone were the silk and satin gowns of surpassing loveliness along with any hope of regaining the life she’d once had.

She was doomed to spend the rest of her days in a dirt hole beneath the ground, destined to starve and die. She would never sit the Iron Throne. She would never rule over Westeros, her homeland and her birthright. She would never be queen.

 _Never_ , said the water, in a familiar voice that made her heart swell. _You were warned of betrayals. You were warned of men with ice in their hearts. Your place was in King’s Landing. Flying north was a grave mistake._

Jorah Mormont’s voice was no louder than a whisper, but it was clear all the same, as if he was sitting right next to her. The sound of his voice, gruff yet tender, the water rippled with it. He’d loved her once, and he’d betrayed her. But she had missed him, and so badly wanted to see him again. She wished he truly was sitting beside her. “I feel so lost and alone.”

 _Alone, because you sent me away and put your trust in those who would only fail you_ , Ser Jorah whispered with the babbling stream. _Lost, because you forsook your throne and came north to a place you never should have been._

“I only wanted to be a queen,” she spoke tearfully. “I only wanted to go home, to finally plant roots in my home soil and grow strong. To finally rest. I just needed to secure my kingdom, to secure my dragons. I couldn’t just let Rhaegal go.” Something deep in her chest clutched at her and ached, her tears flowing freely.

 _Stop your crying_ , the water whispered to her, but the sound was different. It was no longer her Ser Jorah, yet it was familiar all the same. The voice was cold and demanding and sent a chill through her. _You are the blood of the dragon. You were all that’s left of us. You wanted to plant roots? To rest? Dragons don’t rest, sweet sister. Dragons wage war, and they win._

“The enemy was too strong, too powerful,” she said to Viserys, sounding more and more desperate. “I couldn’t win. I failed. What am I to do?”

 _You won’t find the answer in the darkness beneath the ground,_ the stream spoke in reply. _You’ve forgotten who we are, forgotten who we were destined to be. You’ve forgotten our words._

“Fire and blood,” she answered the rushing water. “I haven’t forgotten. But my dragons are gone, all three are lost. The gods have forsaken me.”

 _We are Targaryens_ , Viserys continued to whisper, his cold voice now fading, growing distant. _The plans of men may be playthings for the gods, but our plans are not like theirs. We are above the laws of gods and men. Our valiant brother, Rhaegar, his wife and children, the sack of King’s Landing, our father and our House… now they will never be avenged. It was all within your grasp, in the palm of your hand, and you failed._

Daenerys did not know how to answer her brother’s voice. She had never believed herself to be equal to, or above, the gods. At one time she had wanted to break the wheel, the ever-moving circle of power within Westeros that allowed one House after another to corrupt the land and trample its people. But wasn’t House Targaryen part of the very wheel she had wanted to destroy? Was it any wonder this blue-eyed king and his servants of ice wanted to crush and put an end to the Seven Kingdoms? Did the power he wielded come from the gods? Was he a god himself? Or a man? Something in between?

She had wanted to take back the Iron Throne. This she had done, but she wanted so much more. She had wanted to rule. She had wanted to avenge Rhaegar and his children, she had wanted to punish the Usurper, Robert Baratheon, and his dogs, Stark and Lannister. Was there truly no hope for vengeance against her enemies, no hope to become the queen she’d been destined to be?

“There is none,” Daenerys whispered into the dimly lit cavern as tears ran down her cheeks, her voice lost among the rushing sounds of the stream. Without her dragons, how could she hope for survival, much less avenge her family and rule over Westeros? _I was the mother of dragons,_ she thought, bitterness rising within her. _If they are dead, then so am I._

She cried a while, alone on the bank of the underground stream. After some time had passed, she took a few deep, steadying breaths and then dried her tears. She still couldn’t shake Viserys’ voice from her mind, a harsh reminder of her failures. Even as Dany thought of these things she heard in the distance a sudden roar, which seemed to come from the direction which the stream was flowing towards. The sound was strange, yet familiar. Thoughts of Drogon came unbidden to her mind. At once starting to her feet, she wondered if the sound truly belonged to him. But the idea was too absurd, and she tried to brush it aside with a quavering scoff.

Another distant roar, like the sound of surf on a rocky shore.

Turning and grabbing the torch from the rocks, she lifted the burning light in her hand and strained to see in the darkness. The faint light shone through the murky air, and another roar sounded. Daenerys began to move, following the bank of the stream. The farther along the path she went, the cooler the air became, the more distance she put between herself and the damp warmth of the cave with the weirwood throne.

A distant roar split the darkness once more, but it had grown louder. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to keep moving, pressing forward, her eyes straining to see in the dark. She was anxious to find the source of the sound, desperate for even a sliver of hope that there was still more for her out there, more than what this cave could offer. Every fiber of her being rejected the desolate future that awaited her if she were to remain here, which she now believed was a fate worse than death.

After a while, the cavernous path started to grow lighter as the air around her grew colder. Dany’s heart began to pound inside her chest. Could there be hope for her outside the cave? A way to reclaim her destiny? A way to win back Westeros and become the queen she was meant to be? But even as the idea took shape in her mind, another roar disrupted it, louder and closer than before.

Hurrying along the path, the underground stream still flowing steadily to her left, she soon came to the mouth of the cave. The light around her seemed to leave a glistening sheen on the surface of the ground and the cavern walls. Her breath began to emerge as puffs of hot steam in the frigid night air. An utterly indefinable chill crept into her heart, driving out whatever pleasant feelings may have still dwelt there before this moment.

Standing in the cave entrance, she looked over the land extending out in front of her. She was again confronted with the harsh landscape of a snow and ice-covered clearing surrounded by trees. After scanning the area for several moments, Daenerys laid eyes on him emerging from the tree line. She saw pale, translucent wings unfolding and stirring the air around him. Pale smoke vented from his mouth and nostrils.

“Drogon,” she whispered.

And yet he wasn’t. Gone were his black scales, and his horns and spinal plates of blood red. His vibrant color had faded, grown pale. What had once been the smoldering red pits that were Drogon’s eyes, now they were the color of blue, an unnatural shade of blue, a blue that burned like ice and shone like stars. She’d seen eyes like that before.

Slowly emerging from the tree line, she saw the blue-eyed king ride into the clearing, atop what could only be a dead horse, and move to stand near her dragon. His skin too was pale, almost translucent, and his eyes burned like ice. She expected more of his kind to arrive, or the living corpses that were his army of wights. But after several moments, no one else appeared. When the king was beside the dragon, he stopped.

Drogon spread his wings and roared when he spied her. Her heart constricted. Had she ever loved anyone or anything more than him? The king glanced up at the enormous beast beside him and gave an approving nod. With this permission granted, the dragon began moving towards her. Daenerys felt their connection, and she ached for her child, yet she hesitated, and remained standing within the mouth of the cave. She remembered the swamp girl telling her the cave was protected by magic. Was this girl’s word all that prevented the Night King from attacking?

The dragon soon halted several yards from the cave entrance, and the blue-eyed king followed him across the clearing, coming towards her. Again, he stopped to stand next to the dragon, who continued to flap his wings and roar at the sight of her, as if anxious to be reunited. The Night King dismounted from the monstrous-looking horse and moved to stand in front of it. His gaze met hers and held. She couldn’t look away but remained transfixed by his cold stare. He then placed a steadying hand on Drogon’s large, pale flank, and the dragon quieted.

Dany’s stomach twisted into knots at the action. How dare this king command her dragon? She was its mother. Her eyes followed him as he moved back to the dead horse, where he turned and reached inside the decaying saddle. She watched him retrieve something and then turn back to gaze at her. His hand had grasped what appeared to be a gown, but it hadn’t been made with any material she recognized. It seemed to change color as it hung from his grasp; white as snow, black as shadow, and everywhere flecked with the cold blue glow of the winter night. With each sway as it dangled, the pattern of the gown moved like moonlight over the surface of water.

And then the Night King held out his hand to her, an invitation. Again, Drogon roared at her and stirred his wings. As she looked upon them, a strange feeling of inexpressible sadness stole over her; a strange foreboding of she knew not what. Dark shadows seemed to pass across the moonlight, and that indefinable chill again crept into her heart. It now seemed to her that Drogon’s roar may have been striving to warn of a coming calamity, of the grim shadow of impending evil.

A memory stirred, one from long ago, of Xaro and Qarth. _Let this be your kingdom, most exquisite of queens, and let me be your king_ , he had said. _I will give you a throne of gold, if you like._

There may not be any gold in her future, but there could still be a throne. With one last hesitant gaze between Drogon and the outstretched hand of the blue-eyed king, Daenerys stepped out of the cave and into the clearing. _If I look back, I am lost._

**Author's Note:**

> References: 
> 
> [Map of Westeros](http://awoiaf.westeros.org/images/e/e7/Map_of_westeros.jpg)
> 
> [Map of Essos](http://awoiaf.westeros.org/images/f/f1/The_free_cities_Adwd_map.jpg)
> 
> [Whitetree](http://awoiaf.westeros.org/images/e/e3/Whitetree_by_dinodrawing.jpg)


End file.
